


The Bite of Knowledge

by theproblematique



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Brief Sam/OMC, Dean being a dick, Denial, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Star Wars References, so much pining, spoiler alert this has the happiest ending ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproblematique/pseuds/theproblematique
Summary: Omegas can tell when alphas are attracted to them. It's a survival mechanism.After years of buildup, Dean finally realizes that Sam is attracted to him.It's a shitshow.





	The Bite of Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alienass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienass/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY DEAREST ALIENASS AKA NAVIGATINGREALITIES AKA CERTIFIED CO-CONSPIRATOR AKA LOVELIEST HUMAN BEING!!!!! This is for you, as it is now your birthday in the country where you happen to be (which is unfairly far from the country where I happen to be).
> 
> SOME OTHER THINGS: I did not include the problematic Dub-Con tag for this fic because, despite the fact that it deals with heats etc, it was my intent as author to portray 100% willingness and consentability on behalf of both characters, and consent is explicitly discussed and given. That being said, if anyone would like that tag to be added I am very happy to do so.

 

“Wait, so every time I like someone who’s omega... they’ll _know_?”

Sam stops in the middle of tying his shoelaces and gapes up at Jo. She flicks her hair impatiently over her shoulder, the silvery blonde of it glinting in the sunlight. “Yeah. It makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s a way for omegas to protect themselves, and mateship is only supposed to be about two people anyway—“

“There’s polymateships as well, Jo, don’t be gross. And some people don’t want to be mated at all--”

“Sorry, sorry—I meant mateship is only supposed to involve the people in it. So like, it’s logical for the fertile you like to be the only one who can feel your call. I guess nature didn’t care so much about the other way around,” she snorts, scuffing her sneaker against the dry earth of the Roadhouse parking lot. “You alphas already have the muscle mass and the knot, at least we get a better sense of smell and a warning system. I know _I_ can always tell when an alpha is interested.”

It’s not that Sam doesn’t understand what Jo is admitting to him; it’s that he _wishes_ he didn’t. Something is dawning on him. Something big.

He stands up, stretching perfunctorily before they start their run. Jo keeps saying it’s not a race but then claiming she’s won at the end.

“And I know that you being an alpha doesn’t mean you’ll only be attracted to omegas,” she continues. “You might like another alpha or a beta or you might not be attracted to anyone, but—“

“But that means that if I like someone who’s omega... they’ll _know_.”

Jo arches an eyebrow. “Try to think about it from my point of view.”

And she’s off like a shot.

*

He was thirteen when he had that conversation with Jo, and the world started to end.

There had been something growing in the back of his mind; an idea—a deep, dark fear. Jo’s explanation somehow made it worse in a way he hadn’t even taken into account.

He hadn’t counted on the potential for discovery.

Loving Dean so differently was sad. It was lonely. It was, in fact, excruciating, and Sam had prayed for things he shouldn’t and every day felt a longing that came from deep down in his chest, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of Dean _finding out_.

It took a daily battle with himself to put off Dean realising what he felt, and Sam kept up that fight for seven long years--over two-thousand days, each one an uphill climb, only for Sam to fall into bed at night exhausted, drained, and desperately unchanged. If anything, his love for Dean grew as he got older, and so did his desire. It was a matter of time, but he was too much of a coward to do the brave thing and run away.

It was a matter of time.

*

As an alpha, Sam is supposed to be a brute and a tool; no more than a mindless extension of his knot. His size and build play into that stereotype and frighten some people, but he’s learning to deal with that even as he keeps growing. He’ll still take the mistrust and the fear over the shit Dean has to litigate every day; he knows it’s not like he got the short end of the stick here.

As an alpha, Sam is supposed to fetishize and objectify omegas before settling down with a nice beta in a cul-de-sac. He’s supposed to go to college and get a law degree and knot his wife in the missionary position with the lights off.

Trouble is, Sam is in love with his brother.

He’s been in love with Dean his entire life, and he’s been fighting it for what, at the age of twenty, feels like forever. It hasn’t been easy. He’s had to time convenient disappearances with the onset of Dean’s heats and he’s always surrounded himself with mostly omega friends and he’s done nearly everything in his power, tried everything his research recommended and a few things nobody would have dreamt him capable of. He is still on the broken end of a one-sided mating bond that will never be fulfilled.

Of course, the inevitable reveal happens on a day that isn’t particularly special, but Sam is twenty and overdue for his first rut, so disaster had been spelled out already.

They’d hung out at the Roadhouse all day. Sam did homework and Dean flirted with Jo half-heartedly until Ellen caved and gave them some leftovers to eat, then they crashed at their usual room in the Starlit Motel nearby.

Sam feels prickly and annoyed because Dean didn’t pay enough overbearing attention to him during the day, and Dean is acting like a brat because Jo is growing up and flusters less easily.

“I just need two more days in town, Dean.”

“Do you think the potential victims of a—a Chupacabra in Maine care about your stupid online college courses?”

“There are no Chupacabras in—“

“You know what I meant. There’s always a case out there if you’re willing to unstick your nose from your damn books and go look for it. Dammit Sam, how can you be so...”

Sam glares up at his brother, fist gripping the prickly bedsheets in a tight bundle. He’s waiting for the word, the accusation of selfishness—Dean always defaults back to it when Sam wants to stay instead of going, or leave instead of waiting, or spend _any_ time apart using a flimsy excuse like this one. Schoolwork is as good a reason as any to get Dean’s restless ass on the road while Sam stays where he knows he’ll get a good wifi connection, but Dean always takes it personally if Sam chooses a course of action that involves them not being together for a day or two. If there were concrete victims, a real monster to fight, Sam would have no choice but to agree, but this is just Dean wanting to drive away from the Roadhouse for a few months.

“How can I be so _what_?” he prompts.

Angry, Dean is more likely to leave. Sam has had to learn to use his brother’s nomadic soul against him to get some breathing room.

“We’ll find a case if we go out looking for it,” Dean repeats. “You’re just hot for Jo and that’s why you wanna hang around.”

Sam lets out a snort that’s almost a growl. He is so fucking done with Dean’s obsession with his alleged love for Jo. Sam and Jo became close as kids, during the years when Dad started letting Dean hunt and needed a place to dump his youngest son. He doesn’t know if Dean’s attitude is purely out of spite, because Sam has a friend, or whether Dean’s own feelings for Jo are causing him to act like a petulant five-year-old.

“Just because I’m an alpha and she’s an omega doesn’t mean I like her, Dean,” he says for the millionth time. He’s never thought of Jo that way and she’s been a reluctant member of the Dean Fanclub for as long as he has (she just doesn’t know Sam is a Gold-card-carrying, premium-account-holding VIP).

“Please. You’re the size of a sequoia and she’s the size of a cutesy little woodland creature, it’s a match made in size-kink heaven.”

“What?” he almost laughs, but then remembers he’s trying to make Dean mad. “Dean, Jo and I are just friends. Let it go.”

“‘Just friends’. Right. What I wanna know is why you won’t just admit you’re dying for a taste of that ‘o’--”

“Stop.” Okay, _Sam_ is angry now. “Stop talking. Get in your goddamn car and go sleep with every beta in Wisconsin, but just—just shut up.”

Dean’s eyes flash with hurt, which is really fucking rich.

“ _I’m_ an ‘o’,” he mutters. “S’not like it’s offensive if I say it.”

“Tell that to Jo, not to me.”

Dean hesitates for a moment and then walks over to him so he’s standing right in front of Sam, almost between his legs.

“Why do you wanna stay so bad, then?” He sounds genuinely flabbergasted.

A waft of delicious, toe-curling allure floods Sam’s nostrils.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Sam murmurs. He’s focusing all his energy on thinking about the half-rotten corpse of a bunny he saw by the side of the road. Up next is the months after Dad died when Dean spiraled into a horrible depression. He has to keep an arsenal of horrific things in mind for these moments.

Sam is pretty conclusively fucked up.

“You really care more about your online college than about...?” Dean trails off. They both know he’s not talking about potential victims of the supernatural anymore.

When Sam doesn’t answer (every cell in his body is working to repress a visceral reaction to Dean’s proximity) Dean suddenly crouches down to meet his eyes.

Sam flinches, startled, and can’t help but look at his brother.

Dean’s huge green eyes flit between his own, his lips are moist and slightly parted, and his stance is involuntarily deferential. As broad-shouldered as Dean is, he looks smaller like this; craning his neck to look up at Sam from a position Sam’s feverish dreams conjure up too often.

“Come with me,” Dean says.

And suddenly, after fighting a battle he’d been doomed to lose from the start, Sam’s body _wins_.

He snaps his jaw shut to keep the sound inside but there’s no containing the flush of heat that shoots through him, and he knows, he can _feel_ the pulse of pheromones react inevitably.

It’s not even about sex. That’s the worst part—the most damning part of all this. It’s not about sex, it’s about _love_ ; it’s about wanting to be with Dean forever, to mark Dean up and have the mating bite display to the world that Sam belongs to Dean and always will. His desire leeches into the air around him with a density no omega could ignore.

Dean cocks his head and frowns.

 _No_ , Sam thinks, desperate, stunned, completely in denial. No because this can’t be it, not like this, not in a Starlit Motel on a Tuesday night, not over the stupidest version of an argument they’ve had a million times and especially not after everything he’s sacrificed—no please no _no—_

“Is that,” Dean starts, and stops. He looks perplexed, hasn’t quite made the connection yet and it’s not because he’s not smart enough, he must just not want to see it.

Who would?

“What are you...” Dean tries again.

Sam, having been granted the priceless opportunity to watch as his life crumbles right before his eyes in a single, defining instant, can only stare.

He has somehow managed to not prepare for this moment at all.

Dean visibly inhales on his next breath and promptly falls back on his ass. He ‘humpfs’ in surprise and keeps staring up at Sam with those same wide green eyes, only it’s completely different now, because they aren’t having a conversation anymore, this isn’t just the rerun of a fight—everything has changed.

“Sammy?” Dean croaks. His legs are splayed wide where he fell.

“I...”

A denial is not an option, so he lets go of that first instinct and just stares down at Dean instead. Just looks into his brother’s eyes even as he feels his own fill with tears, and awaits judgement.

“Sam, are you...?”

The half-asked question hangs in the air, and Sam honestly doesn’t know how it ends.

_Am I attracted to you? Am I in love with you?_

The answer to both is ‘yes’ _._

_Yes, and I am so, so sorry._

His silence is damning. He wants to at least apologize but his throat doesn’t seem to be quite up to working.

Dean’s face goes through a multitude of expressions for a while; shock and disbelief and, for a horrible moment, what must be an attempt at smiling as though to gloss over what he just smelled, like it never happened. But Sam’s snot and tears aren’t exactly easy to ignore, and he can’t imagine the smell is either.

“Damn,” Dean coughs out finally, letting out a shaky breath. “Sammy, I...”

“M’sorry,” Sam blurts, belatedly finding his voice. “I’m so sorry. I tried--I tried to fight. I tried.” He needs Dean to know this, apparently. “I just—I couldn’t—can’t help it. I’m sorry. I was gonna—I was gonna go away.” It’s a confession to himself, too; a half-baked plan that had been cooking in the back of his mind in case (when, this was inevitable; _when_ ) this day came. “I can still go. I was gonna apply to college, like, traditional college, and I could still—“

A hand clamps around his wrist in a move so fast it’s near-violent.

“ _No_ ,” Dean thunders. He rose up on his knees to do it and he doesn’t seem to care that he’s completely crowding Sam’s personal space, in spite of what Sam’s personal space must be telegraphing at him still.

He looks furious, and his grip on Sam is tight enough to hurt.

“No, you’re not doing that.”

Sam keeps trying to breathe, half-sobbing and half-shivering with the shock of it all, still completely unprepared to deal with this aftermath. He can’t look away from Dean’s eyes, trapped, always trapped in that brilliant gaze.

“But...” He can’t believe Dean isn’t rejecting him. He can’t believe Dean isn’t forcing him out. “Are you sure?”

Dean nods without even pausing to think about it. “Of course I’m sure, man. You can’t... you’re not _leaving_ me.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck but still holds onto Sam’s wrist with the other, as though afraid to let go. “This... this probably happens to other people.”

This isn’t supposed to happen between family members. Alpha, beta or omega—doesn’t matter, it’s not supposed to happen.

“I’m sorry,” Sam offers again.

Dean shrugs. “S’okay. I know you’d never try anythin’.”

Horror clenches Sam’s gut like a fist. “God, no,” he gasps. “I’d never, Dean, I—I always leave during your heats, didn’t you notice? And I—from now on I’ll sleep in the car, if that makes you feel better—“

“ _Sleep in the_...?” He snorts. “Sam, I know you’d never touch me. You’re an alpha, not a...” Dean doesn’t say the word, but it hangs ugly in the air. _You’re not a rapist_. “...I know alphas can control themselves, and I know you’re more of a control freak than most.” He smiles a little. “It’s okay.”

Sam kind of wishes Dean would let go of his wrist now, but he tries to smile back.

 _It’s okay_.

Good God, is his brother really that noble? Under all the bravado and machismo and testosterone crap he pulls to overcompensate, is Dean an actual freaking _saint_?

“I... I’ll get over it,” he says. And maybe, if he pours enough belief in the promise, he can keep it one day.

Dean’s smile broadens, and then becomes a grin when he finally lets go of Sam’s wrist to slap his shoulder. “‘Course you will, Sammy. We’re gonna be okay. C’mon, let’s rent _Empire Strikes Back_ and get drunk, huh?”

They always watch _Episode V_ , over and over, instead of some sort of sequential viewing or literally any variety. They’ve seen it so many times they can quote the lines right along with the actors. Sam loves _Star Wars_ nights, normally.

_It’s okay._

_We’re gonna be okay._

Sam hopes that Dean is right, he hopes with all that’s left in him, but he has no idea. Luke and Yoda talking about fear plays in his head on a loop long after the movie is over and far into the early hours of the morning.

_"I'm not afraid."_

_"Oh, you will be. You will be."_

*

Dean relents about letting Sam stay at the Roadhouse for two extra days but stubbornly refuses to interpret Sam’s subtle hints that he should take off and leave him alone for a bit. Now that his secret is finally out, Sam would have liked a few hours to himself to adjust to this version of reality where Dean knows Sam wants him.

Reality is not so kind. The next morning he slips out of the motel with his laptop, intending to set up shop at the table with the strongest wifi connection and bury himself in coursework... and succeeds for all of thirty minutes.

He’s only just managed to give himself to the lull of the quiet morning crowd (half of the hunters are probably nursing hangovers, anyway) when Dean bursts into the Roadhouse like a storm, doors swinging behind him as he frantically casts his gaze around until he finds Sam at the corner table at the other end of the room.

Jo, who was sitting with Sam reading Moby Dick with a mildly disinterested expression, suddenly tenses up.

“You forgot your phone, Sam!” Dean yells, obnoxiously loud. The breakfast patrons all turn to stare (or glare) at him.

Sam didn’t forget his phone, he just wanted a bit of space.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he mouths. He feels awkward and overly conscious of his facial expressions, as if Dean knowing his secret now suddenly means Jo, Ellen and everybody else will too. God, what would Jo say if she found out Sam was crushing on the same guy she is—the guy Sam happens to be related to? If there’s anything to be grateful for in this situation it’s the fact that omegas can’t tell when an alpha likes someone else.

Dean inclines his head in acknowledgement of the apology and ambles over to the bar to talk Ellen into giving him free coffee, probably.

Jo tucks her hair behind her ears and glares down at her book with over-the-top focus.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Sam asks her.

The glare lifts from the page to his face. “Ash has it covered. This is my breakfast break.”

Sam nudges her foot with his own and she tries to kick back, but he moves too fast and she knocks her sneaker against the chair leg.

“ _Ow_ ,” but she’s smiling reluctantly.

“Too slow, Harvelle.”

Sam nudges her leg again. This time Jo kicks him in the shin so hard that his resulting flinch hits the table, and Sam has to grab his coffee cup before the wobble causes it to slosh over his keyboard. “Hey!”

“You started it!”

“You’re such a _brat_.”

“I’m your age, and you’re a clutz,” Jo fires back, grinning. “You’re the clutzy-est alpha I know.”

Sam scoffs. “I am _not_ —“

“Kids, kids, play nice,” Dean’s voice precedes Dean’s delicious scent by half a second, and then Dean himself is standing over them and the moment of levity is gone.

Jo’s cheeks color immediately and Sam doesn’t even want to know what hectic shade of red is staining his own.

“Hey, Dean,” he mutters under his fringe.

“Hey yourself, little brother.” He sounds so freaking _Dean_ that for an insane moment Sam thinks he might have dreamt up last night’s life-ending scene.

But when he looks up in surprise, his brother’s cool gaze slides right off him and Dean’s broad grin twitches with unease. So it _is_ an act. So yesterday happened, and Dean is just as uncomfortable as Sam expected he would be, and they will never be the same again and basically Sam just ruined his own life by not being able to control his goddamn fucking alpha urges.

“Hey, Jo.”

“Hey.” Jo gets up off the table and flicks Sam in the arm when she passes him, making Sam lunge to try to flick her back before she scampers off—but he’s too slow and she flashes him a smirk over her shoulder.

Sometimes Jo makes him want to stick out his tongue like they are still six years old instead of being months away from legal drinking age.

“So...”

Dean takes Jo’s vacated seat and leans forward conspiratorially.

“...I thought last night meant you liked me, not Jo.”

Sam’s stomach drops like a stone.

“I. What?”

Dean’s shoulders hunch defensively. “What?” His eyes still don’t quite meet Sam’s own when he talks, but his voice is gruffly casual. “A man finds out his little brother wants his body, he assumes he’s a little special.”

“Dean...” Sam can’t even feel his face. This... this isn’t happening. “Oh my god, you... I...”

Dean takes a sip of Sam’s coffee like it’s nothing and seemingly waits for Sam’s floundering to get under control.

“I don’t like Jo,” Sam ends up saying hollowly, watching as his brother deposits the small espresso cup back in its saucer. The gesture is another sign that Dean is overcompensating the brotherly act, since he’s grabbed food from Sam’s plate before but they’ve never shared a glass or a bottle (Sam would have remembered tasting Dean’s spit).

“Look, I know I can only smell it when an alpha likes _me_ , but... s’pretty obvious you like her too, dude.”

Sam keeps staring at the faint sheen of Dean’s saliva on the ceramic lip. “I don’t.”

“Oh c’mon, what was all that pigtail-pulling shit I just saw, then?”

That statement finally snaps Sam’s gaze up to his brother. For the first time since yesterday he thinks he might feel as close to normal around Dean as he ever will, because he’s suddenly really annoyed. “Are you kidding me? ‘That pigtail-pulling shit’ is so problematic, Dean, omegas should _never_ be taught to interpret aggression as affection—“

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, hey, that’s not what I meant! And I agree with you, okay? Christ, you’re so soapbox-y in the morning.” He rolls his eyes. “I meant that flirty footsie game I saw you two playing.”

“We’re friends.”

“Yeah, right.” Dean leans back against the chair like some sort of world-weary romance connoisseur. “What I don’t get is how you can admit you wanna knot me, your _brother_ , and not her—“

Sam gets up so fast his thighs jostle the table and this time his coffee does spill (although thankfully not onto the laptop).

He’s so winded he may start crying, molten hot shame trickling down his spine like lead.

“I...” there isn’t enough breath in his lungs to squeeze a sound out of his vocal chords, it just comes out as a wheeze. What is there to say, anyway?

He turns to leave, blindly knocking into his chair and then into an empty table, leaving his laptop, bag and jacket behind and knowing full well he’s going to have to come back for them.

“Sam,” Dean says, getting up as well. “Sam, hey, I didn’t mean it like that!”

He stumbles towards the bathroom, needing to be alone, needing to _not_ smell Dean’s enticing cinnamon scent even as traces in the air, just for a few moments.

“ _Sam_!”

“Leave your boyfriend alone, man!” someone yells.

Sam is definitely going to throw up.

He makes it all the way to the door of the men’s before someone touches his arm, but he knows it’s not Dean because she’s a beta and because her scent is appealing in a comfortable, soothing manner.

“Sam, you okay?” Ellen asks.

Her hand isn’t holding him in place; she’s just resting an open palm on his bicep and looking up at him with obvious concern. She smells of lavender dish soap.

Sam almost tells her the truth right then and there.

“Sam, c’mon...” Dean’s voice needles behind him. “I’m really sorry, okay?” He sounds sincere and contrite, but Sam needs him to just _not be there_ so it doesn’t really matter how much Dean regrets what he said.

“What’ve you done now?” Ellen growls.

“I—“ Thankfully, Dean actually gives his answer some goddamn thought before blurting out Sam’s secret infatuation to the world. “I was teasing him about some stuff and it got a little much.”

Ellen rolls her eyes. “Color me shocked.”

Sam takes a deep, richly scented breath and squares his shoulders. Ellen doesn’t drop her hand, which he is able to draw strength from.

He finally turns around and faces his brother again, this time with a pulse-rate that wouldn’t get him defibrillated in an ER.

Not only should he have predicted that Dean was going to be an asshole about this, but he should have realized that Dean kind of has a right to be. It’s only been a few hours since he inadvertently dropped an epic truth-bomb on his brother; Dean didn’t reject him or denounce him or commit fratricide, he’s just... not taking it very well. And he _can’t_ be expected to take something like this well, right? Who could?

They stare at each other from a moderate distance and then Dean makes a face. “Sorry, “ he says again.

Sam attempts a better version of a natural smile. “So am I.”

Ellen rolls her eyes again. “You two, I swear...” she squeezes Sam’s arm one last time and leaves them be to get back to the bar.

Dean takes a step closer, and even though it’s not a punch to Sam’s shoulder the way he might’ve done before, it’s certainly something.

“Dean, I’m gonna be better. You’ll see, I—“

“No, it’s... it’s okay, Sam. I don’t want you to change. I don’t want anything to change.”

 _Well, that’s a bit unrealistic_ , Sam thinks. “...Okay.”

“Hey,” a voice interrupts. Sam turns to look at a guy who is exiting the bathroom; obviously a hunter because he’s under thirty and he’s wearing worn blue plaid. He’s stopped at the door to stand behind Sam and reaches out to put an unwelcome hand on Sam’s back. “You get tired of him, you call me, yeah?”

Sam is so startled by the offer that it doesn’t occur to him to say ‘no way’. He just stares at the omega and blinks, confused. He doesn’t even realize Dean is walking until Dean literally elbows him out of the way to place himself between Sam and the stranger.

“I’m his _brother_ ,” Dean grunts. Like that’s all the stranger needs to know in order to back off.

Of course, the reverse happens.

“Really?” Bushy blond eyebrows rise in surprise, and the omega’s eyes flicker to Sam with renewed intrigue. “Then this is my lucky day.”

“He’s not interested,” Dean says flatly.

“You’re an ‘o’ same as me, buddy. You gotta know your brother is a hot commodity. And I do mean...” he motions to the breadth of Sam’s shoulders. “... _Hot_.”

Sam wonders whether there is a limit to the number of times a person can be embarrassed to the core in a span of twenty-four hours.

“Keep walking, _buddy_ ,” Dean growls.

The guy doesn’t comply until Sam gives an uncomfortable nod in support of Dean’s words. He looks really disappointed, and Sam has to reluctantly acknowledge that this sort of thing keeps happening to him more and more often. He knows alphas are relatively rare in proportion to betas and omegas, but he hadn’t really been able to think of himself as a ‘hot commodity’.

Can omegas tell when an alpha is nearing their rut? Sam knows he’s due, but he doesn’t feel any different. It might explain the phenomenon though.

They walk to the car in silence and Sam has just resigned himself to the claustrophobic, Dean-saturated motel room for another day when his brother speaks again:

“This is gettin’ outta hand, man,” Dean mutters, shifting gears to back out of the Roadhouse parking lot. He still looks angry. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

Sam sighs. Even before Dean found out about Sam’s feelings, he hadn’t been dealing with the uptick in unsolicited propositions to his kid brother very well. “Sorry.”

“I mean...” Dean continues, like he didn’t hear. “If you think about it, it’s almost too bad that they can’t tell you’re hot for me, you know? It would help solve a bunch of misunderstandings.” Completely ignoring the look _that_ puts on Sam’s face, he rambles on. “Goddamn ‘o’s start wetting themselves every time you walk in a room, no fuckin’ self-control... and the betas are no better.” He waves a hand in the air. “They see a tall drink of water with a knot and suddenly everyone wants to take a ride on the wild side. I swear, if it wasn’t incest I’d seriously think about telling them just to see the look on their dumb faces.”

Sam is going to hyperventilate again. “Can you... can you not bring it up? Please?”

Dean glances at him sideways. “What?”

Sam’s face feels so hot he must be scarlet. “The, um. My thing. Can you not... can you try to forget about it?”

In retrospect, it’s kind of an unreasonable request, and Dean takes it as such. “You’re kidding me, right?” he says. “You want me to _forget_ that you’re full for me?” Sam flinches at the crass language, no matter how horribly accurate. “I can’t un-smell that, Sam. All I gotta do is be near you and it’s... I mean, don’t get me wrong kiddo, I’m flattered, but now that I’ve felt it it’s kind of all over you.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’m sorry, I--”

“I told you, it’s okay--it’s actually not bad.” There’s a pause. “It’s not bad at all.”

He reaches out to touch Sam’s hand but Sam wrenches the limb back, heart thundering in his chest, pumping self-hatred.

“Sam,” Dean says, slapping a palm over Sam’s knee instead. “Look at me.”

Oh God.

“ _Look_ at me,” he repeats.

Sam does as he’s told—the one he wants for a mate is asking for something, of course he’s going to do it. He’d also kill a man if Dean told him to.

Dean smiles, crookedly but honestly. “I told you it’s okay, Sammy. You don’t need to keep apologising for everything. It’s gonna be okay. Just don’t... don’t ask me to forget about it, okay?” He squeezes Sam’s knee and must not realize what it’s doing to Sam’s nerves. “I’m cool with it. I mean, Jesus, you could have anyone you wanted. S’flattering, like I said.”

“God.”

“It is, man! I’m just _that_ irresistible.” Dean grins broadly, clearly fishing for a laugh, and Sam complies a little hysterically.

“I can’t believe you,” he says.

“You still want to tie this, though,” Dean continues, obviously pleased with his results. “You want to tie this _bad_.”

It’s the opposite of funny, really, but Sam forces out another weak laugh, trying to ignore the fact that everything Dean is saying is painfully, damnably true.

*

There is a case, of course. Once they go looking for it, they find a haunting in a small-town mall.

They salt and burn the remains of the eleven-year-old who’d been snatched there and killed in the parking lot. It’s the type of case that makes Sam sick with heartache, but Dean continues to be a jovial, slightly heightened version of himself, like he’s trying to normalize this situation as much as possible along with buoying Sam’s spirits.

Sam loves him, loves him, loves him.

There’s a grateful alpha who worked security at the mall—she was the first to speak up about the strange flickering lights and frozen display windows, and she’s the first person they interviewed. She’s not-so-subtly offering Dean a ride by the end of the case; Sam doesn’t need omega senses to be able to tell that.

It’s not a ride in her car.

Even with his sick and twisty feelings, he’s always dealt with this scenario better than Dean has with the reverse. He’s used to Dean being propositioned and even more used to Dean happily accepting said proposals, so the reveal of his pathetic secret love didn’t really change anything from Sam’s point of view.

What he didn’t expect was for it to change _Dean’s_ attitude on his own sex life, because when the alpha asks him to help her salt her doors and windows Dean says: “It’s pretty self-explanatory, ma’am.”

The alpha bursts out laughing. “ _Ma’am_?” she giggles, eyes dancing. “I’m twenty-eight!”

There’s no other reason why Dean would suddenly change his policy on this sort of stuff. She’s gorgeous, she’s confident and she’s an alpha; usually Dean is happy with one out of the three so _what the_ _hell_.

“You should go. Make sure she does it right,” he says to Dean.

Rita, the guard, smiles up at him gratefully. She’s short and stocky and probably strong enough to hold Dean down, which Sam hates to know that Dean loves—but Dean just shakes his head.

“I’ll text you the instructions if you want. We gotta get out of town by tonight, sorry.”

She shrugs, clearly surprised but not heartbroken. Omegas and betas must fawn over her too, and she can’t be used to rejection. “Fair enough. Thank you again.” She takes one of Sam’s hands in both of her own. “Both of you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dean gives her one last smile and ushers Sam out of there, back towards the motel they’ve already paid for through tonight.

Dean parks the Impala in the almost entirely empty lot and Sam puts a hand out to stop his brother from getting out. He needs to resolve this before they go to their room.

“Why—“ he starts, throat dry. He clears it and tries again. “Why’d you do that, Dean.”

“What? A man can’t _not_ have sex every once in a while?”

Sam shakes his head. “No way. Not you.”

Dean scoffs. “She wasn’t my—“

“She was perfect, and you shouldn’t—nothing should have changed. If you really meant it, when you said you... because _I’m_ fine with it. I want you to do what... what you’d normally... do.”

“Wow. Well, thank you so much for your endorsement, Sammy, but I’m pretty sure that decision is mine to make.”

“But you chose different just because of my—my thing!”

Dean snorts, pointedly casting a glance down at Sam’s crotch. “Your ‘thing’ so impressive that you think it can influence my choices?”

Sam flushes hotly. “You know what I meant.”

“I don’t know, Sam, I think you’re giving your ‘thing’ a lot of credit. Seems a pretty big claim, and I haven’t even seen the goods.”

Unbidden, the image of Dean pulling Sam’s cock out of his underwear to look at it appears in Sam’s brain. He shoves it back; years of practice pulling up the usual reel of horror and sadness to replace it, but even as Sam attempts to relive the last, devastating fight he had with his father he sees Dean take a considering sniff of the air.

Green eyes widen in surprise.

“Are you...” The corner of Dean’s mouth curls up with incredulity. “Are you _turned on_ right now, Sammy?”

Sam wants to die. Again.

“I.”

He can’t say ‘no’ because there’s _always_ a thrum when he’s around Dean, and he’s not going to gaslight Dean’s perception of his arousal. He _is_ turned on. He’s also guilty and disgusted with himself and wretchedly sad but Dean’s bright focus has him pinned. All he can do is flounder and squirm and try to recall those gory, heartbreaking images to tamp down the rush of blood pooling in his lower belly.

“Jesus.” But Dean is still smiling; a sincere, wicked thing like they are both in on some cosmic joke. “You got a car thing I didn’t know about or is it just me?”

Sam hunches his shoulders and breaks away from Dean’s gleeful stare, only barely resisting the urge to close his eyes and stick his fingers in his ears.

“I’m s-sorry,” he breathes, begging that this will be it, please let it be over. He watches his own hands twist nervously in his lap and can’t seem to stop them from doing it.

But Dean isn’t done.

Sam hears (and feels) the shift of weight as Dean scoots closer to him and takes another, much more pointed sniff.

“Sam- _my_ ,” Dean murmurs, and it’s so weird, it’s so weird that they are acknowledging this and so weird that Dean sounds absurdly delighted by what he’s finding. “You full for me right now?”

Sam barely catches a whimper in time before it gusts out of his throat. He’s getting there, he’s actually hardening and throbbing and if Dean keeps talking he really is going to fill up his knot. And then he’s going to have to come, one way or another, to get back to normal.

“C’mon, tell me. Is it the leather seats or are you just _that_ into me?”

Sam gives in to the urge to disappear and shuts his eyes. He feels feverish and out of control, muddled by the heat and the shame and the sound of Dean’s voice.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Yeah...?” Dean whispers back. The leather creaks again.

“Please stop.”

Dean goes still.

After a few beats of silence, Sam finally musters up the courage to blindly scramble for the door and pour himself out of the car, stumbling to grab his bag from the trunk and striding to their room without looking back. His heart thunders wildly in his chest the entire time but Dean takes so long to follow him that he’s already in bed when his brother comes into the room.

*

It happens again the very next day.

“That’ll be ten dollars and twenty cents,” the girl says. She must be in her late teens or early twenties (probably early twenties, actually) and she is very pretty. She’s the kind of pretty that gives Sam pause; the kind of pretty that makes people do double-takes in the street. Even in her gas station uniform, her dark dark skin and big frizzy hair are runway beautiful.

She’s wearing comically big pink-framed glasses.

“Dude. Ten dollars and...?”

“Right, right, sorry.” Sam tries to give her a sheepish smile while he gets the change. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles back tightly. Full generous mouth and all.

“Thanks.”

“Bye.”

He’s walking back to the car and to Dean in the driver’s seat when he hears her rush out of the door.

“Hey! You forgot your bag!”

San flushes with embarrassment and turns to take it from her, and then he hears the Impala’s door swing open and Dean steps out.

It’d be funnier if it wasn’t sad, how she and Sam react practically the same way. They both turn to look and then they both sort of stop, or pause, or breathe. Carefully.

She’s a beta, and Sam thinks she’s reacting to the same thing he is; Dean shrugged off his plaid overshirt so that all he’s wearing is a white T-shirt with the neck tugged a little to the side. Dean also smells specially strong today, and it’s because he hasn’t showered since yesterday morning, which should be completely disgusting but it isn’t.

“Hi,” he says.

She nods in greeting, face flushed with interest.

Dean smiles at her and reaches up to put a hand on his neck. Both she and Sam helplessly follow his movements, and even though Dean is still only looking at her Sam knows the show is also for his benefit by the way Dean’s angling his body.

“Are you guys in town?” the girl asks.

Dean walks over until he’s standing in front of her. “We were planning on heading out, actually.” She looks up at him, generous chest heaving a little. “Could be persuaded to hang around.”

His eyes dart to Sam for a brief second after he says it.

“Oh.” She seems shyer than she had when speaking to Sam before. Like the fact that she’s into Dean means she lost her cool a little bit. “Um.” She giggles a bit. She’s so beautiful, even more so in the sun. “I...”

Dean reaches for her and for a moment of intense agony Sam actually thinks he’s going to grab her hand and kiss it or something, but of course he’s just getting the bag in the most obnoxiously flirty way possible.

She startles a bit at the move too, and then laughs when she realizes she’d been holding onto their road food. “Oops! Sorry.”

“You ever smile at someone like that, you ain’t never gotta apologize to them,” Dean says warmly, and it’s so cheesy, and it _works_. She scuffs her sneaker on the concrete and nods, eyes bright with pleasure. Dean looks at Sam again, more deliberately this time, before turning back to the car.

Sam accidentally slams the car door with more intent than necessary.

Dean doesn’t even attempt a preamble. “Were you jealous?”

 _Yes_. “No.”

“Think you wanna jump me as much as she did?”

 _More_. “No.”

“No?” Dean touches his own neck again. “You sure? You saying the smell in the air right now is purely because of your car thing again?”

“Dean--”

“Just my neck botherin’ you that much, huh?”

“It’s just...” Unbearable. Agonizing. “Distracting. No big deal.”

“You smell like it’s a little more than ‘distracting’.”

“Well, it’s not.”

“Can’t lie to me, Sammy.” If the word ‘smug’ were embodied in one person at that moment... “Wonder what you wanna do to this neck, hm? Lick it?” _Yes_. “Suck it?” God, _yes_. “Chomp down on it...?”

Sam shudders, helpless. Dean’s talked crass before and he’s talked dirty before, but necks and bites and jugulars and mating rituals is another level of explicit.

“You won’t tell me?” Dean’s voice somehow does a thing where it goes softer and rougher at the same time. Less volume and more grit and Sam is hopeless.

“No.”

Dean shifts to look at him full on but Sam just keeps staring straight ahead. He’ll get out of the car again before Dean lays in on him for his feelings; he doesn’t want a repeat of last night. “You should stay,” Sam hears himself say. “I’ll meet you at the Roadhouse in a couple of days, we can head to Des Moines after--”

“Oh come on.” Dean finally sounds annoyed. “This again? Why are you trying to cart me off to every alpha we meet?”

“I’m not, but you obviously liked her--”

“And you obviously like _me_ , but I don’t see you doing anything about it!”

He sounds furious and Sam doesn’t know how to respond to the accusation--Dean is technically right, but it makes no sense that he’s saying it like that.

He drives them out of town like they’d planned, however, and doesn’t speak again for miles.

*

Sam can’t even speak at first.

Steam billows into the room through the bathroom door like mist in a horror movie, only this is worse than anything scary or terrifying that could happen there.

He was searching for his missing Bon Jovi shirt when he heard the door creak open and now he’s just staring because how can he not, because Dean has never, in his entire life, come out of the shower naked before. Neither of them do. It’s not how they—it’s not how things _are_. Nakedness is forbidden. Or it happens quickly out of the corner of the other one’s eye while they change. It’s... it’s just not—

“What?” Sam blurts, so stunned and hard and breathless that it just comes out.

Dean looks at him with an inscrutable expression. “I didn’t say anything.”

He’s just standing there. Hair wet. Eyes wide. Towel thrown over one shoulder.

Naked.

“Wh...” Sam’s vocal chords lose steam mid-way through the word. What is he going to say?

Dean tilts his head like he’s being very patient, and Sam very slow. “Yes?”

Sam manages to look away by looking down, and fixates on his own hands in his lap. It’s becoming a habit.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Dean asks, almost innocently, almost offhand.

It’s nighttime and their curtains are drawn, or he’d be flashing the whole motel parking lot, too.

“Unless...” Sam hears him walk forward. _Towards_ him. “Unless it’s making you uncomfortable.”

That’s one word for it.

“Is it making you hard?”

Sam’s throat is a tight fist. His face is in flames.

And yes, God help him but Dean’s already got him rock-hard.

“Got my towel over my neck, here,” Dean says. “Thought you said that was distracting.” He sounds like he’s smiling when he adds; “That’s the word you used, right? ‘Distracting’?”

Still, Sam tries to keep it together.

“It’s okay if you’re hard, Sammy.” Sam hears what sounds like a sniff. “You can tell me.”

There’s a swish and a flutter and when Sam’s eye catches movement it’s because he realizes Dean finally tied the towel around his waist.

“You thinking of making a move?”

“I’d never do that, Dean.”

“But you want to.”

Sam shakes his head.

“Can’t lie to me,” Dean says again. “You might not do it but I know you want to. Smells...” another sniff, deep like Dean is filling his lungs with it. “Smells pretty powerful, little alpha.”

When Sam’s head snaps up to look, Dean’s eyes are bright and his pupils look like two big black dots. He’s half-smiling. If Sam didn’t know better he’d actually think his brother was _high_.

Shouldn’t the smell of Sam’s attraction bother him instead of... amusing him, or whatever the hell this is?

Dean draws closer, still taking those deep, gulping breaths. When he’s not inhaling, his mouth kind of hangs open.

“C'mon.” He stops when he’s standing right in front of Sam and leans forward. “ _Do or do not, Sammy. There is no try_.”

Sam leans back. “Stop.”

“Admit you want it.”

“I already did.”

That makes Dean start. Was he expecting Sam to try to flat-out lie in contradiction to what his body is saying? “And you still do?”

Sam grits his teeth, feeling tortured. “...Yes.”

Dean exhales hugely, ribcage contracting with it. “Knew it.”

“Congratulations, Dean.”

Sam’s stupid fucking brother looks like he was just told he won some form of grant or award. He’s flushed bright pink all the way down to his freckled chest. His hand is on the mattress by Sam’s thigh, and he’s tipped forward in a way that looks like it’s threatening his balance.

He’s breathing so _loudly_. “You need to jerk off, Sammy?”

Sam slides out from under him and storms out of the room.

*

Sam makes a decision the day after the shower incident. He decides he’s been idly playing the victim without actively attempting to change his current predicament. ‘Fighting his emotions’ while still spending hours daily bemoaning his fate isn’t the best he can do; there is one weapon in the battle he had refused to take up, but he’s out of excuses now.

“I wanna go back to the Roadhouse.”

Dean’s eyebrows fly up. “We were just there.”

“Well, I’m going. You can keep driving north if that’s what you want, but I need to—“

“Fine, fine, we’re going back. Sheesh.”

So they drive back to the closest thing they have for a home-base and Sam sets his plan into motion.

The first thing he does after dropping off their duffels at the Starlit is declare his intent to work on his paper for a few hours.

“I thought we were gonna watch _Star Wars_ and get drunk! It’s eight at night on a Saturday, what the hell do you—“

But the door cuts off the rest of Dean’s scandalized rant and Sam is bitterly glad. He loves watching Han and Leia fall in love over and over as much as the next guy, but tonight is not for sitting next to Dean and avoiding his accidental drunken groping.

He decides to walk to the bar instead of taking the Impala in order to minimize how pissed off his brother is going to be, and for twenty blissful minutes he gets to enjoy the crisp night air and dark moonlight, fully aware of the fact that it’s part of his privilege as an alpha and as a male that he can decide to do something like this.

“Sam!”

He’d texted Jo in advance, but she still comes up to him for a punch to the bicep and a grin. The Roadhouse is packed with people at this hour, and Jo isn’t going to be taking any breaks to sit with him anytime soon, but Sam had already factored that in.

“You’re gonna have to sit at the bar,” she tells him, re-tying the greasy apron around her waist with a tray under one elbow.

“That’s fine.” He smiles. “I was counting on it.”

With a slightly confused smile back, she leaves him be to tend to her tables.

It’s chaotically noisy inside, and if his real intent had been to work Sam would have been annoyed already. His laptop just barely fits into a foot of counter space on the left side of the bar, and he only really starts to question his decision when he realises how much danger his keyboard is with all the beer flowing around... but barely two minutes later he is approached by someone.

“Hey. Can I buy you a drink?”

She’s older, and a beta. She smells nice, like flowers and a tinge of lust, but Sam doesn’t get a chance to respond because suddenly Ellen is there, glaring at the newcomer.

“Sam, you know you’re not allowed to drink in here,” she says, looking right at the other woman.

“What? How old is he?” the beta asks, incredulous.

“Twenty,” Ellen says curtly. “So you can move along, sweetie.”

The woman does just that without protest, palms raised.

Sam huffs. “Do you mind? I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Ellen motions vaguely to his height, which his slouch over the bar in no way manages to hide. “But as much as I like to let you kids learn from your mistakes, there are some things better avoided. Life will find some other way to teach you that lesson, I’m sure.”

She grabs a fresh glass and moves to the other side of the bar, leaving Sam to bitterly ponder the curse of always having the ultimate comeback but never being able to use it.

“Hi.”

For some reason, when thinking about how he wanted to let someone take him out back today, the person he’d imagined had always been female. Maybe his brain had automatically searched for something as different from Dean as possible, or the stupid Hollywood omega stereotypes had gotten to him even subconsciously. Either way, when a guy around his age squeezes in next to him Sam doesn’t immediately think ‘Yes’.

Then the guy says: “What’s your name, alpha?” and Sam’s body thinks ‘ _yes’_ for him.

“I-I’m Sam.”

The guy smiles, open admiration in his eyes. He smells like a rich, decadent dessert; like pecan pie. Dean’s scent has a bite of bitterness, like the bark of a cinnamon stick; it’s a little more earthy and less overbearing.

“I’m Pedro.”

“Hi.”

Pedro smiles wider. He’s very tall but he’s leaner even than Sam, and the large baseball jersey he’s wearing makes him look a little smaller. “Right. We covered that.”

Sam knows he can’t take credit for the way Pedro’s cheeks are flushed or the way his jet-black hair sticks to his tan forehead, since they’ve been talking for all of ten seconds, but something in him senses this has the potential to go far. If he’s right, he will be able to pour all his frustration and pain and heartache into a meaningless encounter with this stranger and it has the potential to be great. _Really_. It’s not going to be a betrayal to anyone because no one is going to care.

“Are you studying? ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to interrupt...”

“No, no,” Sam says quickly. “You can...” he’s about to offer Pedro a seat but there are no barstools available.

The omega shrugs and leans his forearms against the dirty counter, tilting his head to look at Sam’s screen. He has military-style cropped hair and the way he holds his body reminds Sam almost uncomfortably of his father, which suggests he may actually _be_ military.

“What’re you doin’, writing an essay at a bar at night?”

“The bar has better wifi than my motel.”

“Ah.” Pedro shoots him a sly look over his shoulder. “You a college guy?”

“Sort of. You an army guy?”

He gets a head-tilt and a predictable answer: “Sort of.” He smiles. “Marine.”

Sam bites his lower lip, trying to think of something else to say. Something other than: ‘ _Will you please help me forget the man I’m in love with?_ ’

“What are you doing h—“

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Pedro interrupts.

“Um. Depends?”

“Are you here alone, or is that pretty waitress your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” God, what is with people and the ‘Jo’ thing, seriously. “Or a boyfriend. Or anyone, really.”

It tastes like a lie. He does have someone.

That someone just doesn’t want him back.

“In that case...” the omega slowly slides between Sam and the bar, elbows resting against Sam’s keyboard and typing an endless string of nonsense.

Sam flinches and almost says something about it, but then Pedro’s strong, buttery-caramel smell is everywhere, and so is Pedro, and their chests are touching and okay, he could... he might be able to do this, this will be good for him and he just has to get through—

“Yeah?” Pedro says.

“Yeah,” Sam says, in answer to a question that was never actually said aloud. “Yeah, let’s...”

*

It does feel good—it _does_. Sam isn’t generally fond of sweets but Pedro is practically dissolving under him. This is what he wanted. This is, in fact, _exactly_ what he came out to find. It’s good.

It _is_.

He’s getting hard from the kissing and the friction and he doesn’t feel about to burst the way Dean can get him going—but he’s not thinking of Dean, so... so it’s fine. They don’t even have to worry about discovery; no one comes out here except Jo to take out the trash, because it reeks of alcohol and, well, trash.

When Pedro bares his neck for Sam’s mouth, Sam isn’t thinking about Dean even a little. He isn’t thinking about the way Dean might do the same, or about actually biting down instead of closing his teeth around this stranger’s jugular in a pantomime of the mating mark. Pedro’s scent gushes intensely when Sam forces a leg between his thighs, and even though the combined stench of the rotting food and the omega’s sweetness makes Sam want to gag a little, it’s still good. There’s something a little passive about the marine but it works for what Sam wants. It’s great.

Dean who?

“Fuck, you’re... God...” Pedro hitches. Sam doesn’t know if they are two separate proclamations or a single sentence, and he doesn’t care.

Dean wouldn’t be passive if Sam were about to mark him, but Sam isn’t thinking about the way Dean’s flesh would yield to his bite or the way Dean’s hands would sink into his hair and push his face in. It feels good to tease the corded muscles between his teeth and not to think about the way Dean smells leading up to his heats; the way he unconsciously rubs himself on any seat he’s sitting in, the way his touches linger longer on Sam’s skin and the way he tries to cover up his reactions to other people’s assertiveness. ‘ _Sammy, I get all tingly when you take control like that_...’

It feels good to take control, and not to think about Dean whimpering if Sam really did take control one day—Sam lets out a satisfied, reverberating growl and he might be able to fill up after all—

“Hey, hey, slow down.”

He instantly draws back with a gasp, realising he’s pinned the omega’s arms to the wall and was biting down harder than he should.

“Sorry,” he grunts. “I’m so sorry, I thought you—“

“I was into it.” Pedro smiles. “ _Really_ into it, fuck. But... it felt like you were actually gonna...” he reaches a hand up to his neck, where an incriminating bruise is already starting to form.

“No, sorry, of course not.” He wasn’t going to pierce the skin but he feels like shit for letting it get to a point where the omega was afraid he might. “I’m really sorry. We should stop, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really...”

“No, no, I...” he takes another step back and takes a deep breath to fill his lungs with the cold night air. He needs some clarity, some calm, and the wide open space at the back of the Roadhouse seems to invite another long, punishing walk instead of the tortuous continuation of this encounter. He actually feels a little better for a moment when Pedro’s overbearing scent fades to the background and is replaced by the acrid alcoholic stench of their surroundings—

And then he smells it.

Faint, but slowly getting stronger; _Dean_.

Dean’s woodsy, cinnamon-spicy scent threads through every other distraction until it dispels Sam’s nausea altogether, and it’s so achingly good, and Sam can’t believe it; _Dean is here_.

“Dean?” he gasps, casting his gaze around for his brother.

Dean appears as if summoned from the shadows.

His eyes are thunderous.

“Go away,” he snaps at the other omega, not even bothering to break eye-contact with Sam. He’s panting for breath like he ran here all the way from the motel instead of driving.

Sam’s stomach sinks. “What? Dean, we’re--kind of in the middle of something.”

“No you’re not,” Dean says flatly. “ _Out_ ,” he growls, and, amazingly, it works. Pedro presses a breathless kiss to Sam’s cheek and stumbles away, back into the bar.

In spite of himself, Sam feels a wave of dizzying relief.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“No.” He hurts in every way possible, including physically. Not coming is very painful once he’s gotten so close to filling up, and there’s that stabbing thing in his chest, too. “Leave me alone, Dean.”

He starts to walk around the building, towards the parking lot at the front where the Impala is surely waiting.

“You pull this shit again I’mma kill the guy!” Dean calls after him, a warning that should sound more like an empty threat than it does. Then he jogs after Sam to walk beside him. “ _Jo_ had to be the one who told me you came out here. The fuck are you doing, Sam?”

“The fuck did it look like,” Sam mutters.

“Who was that dude? Huh?”

Sam doesn’t answer.

“Answer me, Sam! Who was he?”

“Nobody.”

Somehow, that seems to make Dean even angrier. “ _‘Nobody’_? Then why the fuck were his paws all over you, little alpha?” He's half snarling the words. “You can’t just--you can’t just go fuck some random _nobody_ at the roadhouse, Sam! You kiddin’ me? This ain’t never happening again!”

“That’s my decision to make--”

“No. No fucking way. Never again.”

“Dean, I--”

“You want _me,_ not him.”

Hot tears gather at the corners of his eyes and suddenly Sam loses his voice. And his will to argue with his brother.

“You said so last night, right? You still want me, right?”

Dean stops walking.

“Sam?”

They are coming up to the front where the cars are and he can already hear voices, people who stepped out for a smoke or marginally quieter conversation. Sam stops walking too, resigned. He knows that Dean just realized the truth, because Sam’s brother may be an idiot but he’s not dumb.

“Why did you do this, Sam?” Dean says again.

Sam sighs. They both know why and he doesn’t know what the point of saying it aloud is. “Dean, come on...”

“Is it... is wanting me that bad?” The question comes out gruff, his voice having dropped five registers like he developed a sore throat in the last three seconds. “Bad enough you gotta try and replace me with some random twink?”

Sam turns to look at his brother in the warm light spilling from one of the Roadhouse windows. The light cuts into his jaw and cheekbone, and flecks his eyes in green and gold. His freckled skin is bathed in amber, and Sam aches for him so badly. He’s just not strong enough to leave; he loves Dean so much he’s willing to put up even with this.

Dean is so gorgeous. It used to be a source of cruel vindication for Sam; how could anyone resist something so out-of-this-world beautiful?

“This thing... does wanting me have you hurtin’ that bad?” Dean asks again. He searches Sam’s face for answers with his stupid mouth hanging open.

Sam just nods, heartbroken all over again. Isn’t it obvious?

Dean inhales a gulp of air the second Sam confirms his question, nodding reflexively. “Knew it,” he mutters. His favorite phrase of late.

He keeps nodding.

“This kid was just a body for you to rub up against,” he continues. He doesn’t draw another breath until Sam nods in acknowledgement of that, too. “Right, right, ‘cause you can’t have me, so... so you were all hard-up and desperate...” He’s like a bobble-head; he won’t stop. “You were so desperate from wanting me that you just... you needed an outlet, and you found this kid to tie.”

The power of speech finally returns to Sam. “He’s not a kid, he’s at least a couple of years older than me.”

“Whatever. You...” Dean’s eyes dart down Sam’s body and back up to meet his. “You don’t want him as much as you want me. So... so that’s just unhealthy, right? _That’s_ why you shouldn’t do this ever again.”

The utter ridiculousness of Dean’s logic actually makes Sam laugh, although it’s hollow. “I think the alternative is way more unhealthy, Dean. I just... I just need some breathing room, okay?”

“ _No_.” Dean even startles himself, as he is clearly taken aback by his own forceful response. “I... I mean, some Spanish stand-in for me is not the way to go.”

“You don’t get to decide that. And he wasn’t Spanish; South America and Europe are two different—“

“All right, all right, sorry.” Dean has the decency to look guilty. “But you’re not seeing him again. Or anyone.”

“And what am I supposed to do, exactly?” He can’t believe this conversation is actually happening.

“Just... don’t,” Dean says, drawing closer. He makes a cutting motion with his hands to illustrate his denial. “Just—just don’t tie anyone else, okay?”

Sam gapes. His brother, who he has stood by and loved and supported through the death of their Father, who he has hunted with and slept beside and gotten drunk with... his brother who he loves and who claims to love him back, _doesn’t want him to get better_?

“Why not?” he asks finally.

He gets a scoff for a reply, as if the answer is so obvious it doesn’t need to be spelled out. Then Dean starts to walk towards the car.

“Dean!” Sam calls after him. “Dean, _why not_?”

*

He never got an answer, and after his third emotional roller-coaster of a night in a row Sam finally falls into an uneasy sleep.

He wakes up none the wiser on how to act, or what to do now, but with a distracting physical discomfort: his knot is so sore it hurts. In fact, he feels wired and needy all over, and like he didn’t get any rest at all. He should have just locked himself in the bathroom last night and jerked off like he does when he can’t take it anymore, but it’s too late now and Dean’s going to wake up any second.

“What, again?” comes a groan from Dean’s bed.

Sam freezes with one foot on the floor and one still tangled in his sheets.

“...What.”

There’s some rustling and shuffling and then Dean lifts up onto his elbows to glare at him, blinking owlishly in the morning sun. The shirt he’s wearing rode up and a smooth expanse of lower back is painfully revealed.

“You sneaking out on me to go to the Roadhouse a third freakin’ time?”

God, Dean smells good after curling up in a bed at night. Sam’s always wanted to sniff the sheets when Dean was showering but he never let himself do it, namely because Dean’s omega senses would be able to pick up his scent left behind. For some reason, today the idea feels much more tempting than usual.

“...No?”

Dean drops his face into his pillow with an exasperated sound.

To his dismay, Sam’s body lights up like there was some way to interpret that noise sexually. His knot throbs again, sore, and he has to stop his hand from reaching to his groin and cupping himself. Shit, that hurts.

“I’ll meet you there for breakfast,” he mumbles, and gets out of the room as quickly as possible.

*

He feels horrible by the time he walks into the Roadhouse. He drags his feet to the table farthest from anyone else, the one next to the covered pool table no hungover hunter is going to use, and plops himself down without even asking Ash for some coffee.

Jo latches onto the chance to take her break as soon as she spots him, and Sam watches her wave at her mother, then at Ash, and sweep behind the bar to grab her book before walking over to him.

“Mornin’,” he croaks.

“Mornin’?” she echoes, stomping towards him. “What the hell happened last night with the Colombian hottie—“ she cuts off when she takes him in properly, and walks over to stand next to him instead of sitting across the table. “Are you okay?”

Sam makes a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Been better.”

Jo doesn’t sit down. She keeps staring at him consideringly and then leans forward, hair falling over her shoulders. A waft of fresh, dewy scent infuses the air and Sam is startled by how strong it is, but it feels... wrong. He almost wants to draw back to clear his head; he’s never noted anything particularly attractive about Jo’s scent before and he isn’t about to start now.

“Are you wearing cologne?” Jo asks.

It’s not the question he expected. “What? No.”

“Huh. You smell... good.” She wrinkles her nose. “Appealing. It’s... new.”

Sam smiles weakly. “How bad was I before?”

Jo still looks mildly disturbed, and ignores his question. She takes a step closer to him and tilts her head to sniff his neck, though keeping her distance so that it’s not overtly inappropriate to the scattered crowd across the room. Her scent gets even stronger and Sam feels queasy. “I... Christ, it’s so weird. I never really...” and then her eyes go wide and she smacks his shoulder. “Dammit, of course! The rut, Sam.”

Sam’s stomach swoops with nerves. “No way.”

“Oh, yes way.” She looks hilariously relieved. “Thank God, I thought I was actually—“ her cheeks turn pink the way they do around Dean and Sam notes the change with some shock. “Normally you just smell okay, I never really—but today, the way you... um, anyway. Wow. And it explains your thing last night, too. Guess this means you’re a grown-ass man.”

“I...” The rut. Oh God, what is he going to do around Dean? What is he doing to do, period? He doesn’t have enough time to plan things properly. To buy supplies. “I don’t know how to... uh...” To tell Dean.

Jo points to the bar over her shoulder. “I can ask mom to call Pamela for you. She’s an alpha, she’ll be able to talk you through what happens.”

“I know what happens, Jo, that’s the _problem_.”

He knows most mated alphas just spend a day or two in bed with their partners, but single alphas spend a day or two either in generous company or in pain. He’s never questioned his own ability to not turn into a _rapist_ (he knows some alphas have attempted to use that as an excuse before but it’s a hundred percent inadmissible both in court and in reality) and that doesn’t worry him, but... he isn’t looking forward to the prolonged, acute discomfort Wikipedia says he is about to undergo. Neither is he looking forward to the logistical problems that are going to come with it.

Does he accept offers from omegas or betas who volunteer to help him out? Technically his pheromones are displaying availability and willingness more loudly than usual, not altering anyone’s capacity for consent. But so far his encounters with omegas have turned him off more than on, and the mere thought of burying himself in someone who isn’t Dean is nauseating. Having his first time be with a stranger also isn’t all that appealing to him, not without a trace of emotional connection involved.

Does he ask Dean to pay for a separate room to lock himself in for two days? Getting Dean away from him is definitely the first thing he needs to do in order to minimize the symptoms, but—

“Sam. I can hear you thinking from here.” Jo finally slides into the chair opposite him. “I know it’s daunting, okay? I get it. But we all go through this.”

“Not betas,” Sam mumbles.

Jo snorts. “Trust me, sometimes I wish I was a beta too. But... the rest of us all go through this. Heats, ruts... and we all _get_ through this. So you’re gonna be okay, all right?”

He takes in her small smile and can only feel grateful. When she holds out a hand for him to touch he complies, feeling the contact leech some of the fear from his mind. His giant palm basically dwarfs her entire hand, but it’s a profoundly comforting gesture. A swell of warmth that has nothing to do with attraction reminds him of how much he loves Jo like a sister.

He just wishes he felt the same way about Dean.

“Thanks, Jo. I really... I really appreciate—“

“Morning, kids!”

A bolt of heat shoots through Sam like lightning and he wrenches his hand away.

“D-Dean!”

He is, quite suddenly, on fire.

Jo drops her face into her palm. “Oh for the love of—“

His brother strides over to them with a fixed grin in place, the tension around his eyes telling Sam everything he needs to know about whether Dean saw them holding hands. Oh God, and there’s Dean’s _smell_ —

“Heya Sammy. Hi Jo. You mind if I talk to my brother for a sec?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Jo gets up off the table and Dean takes her place in almost the exact same move as last week. Except this time it wasn’t friendly kicks that Dean caught them doing and Sam knows, for some weird reason, that Dean is _really_ pissed off.

“What,” he says. Dean’s scent has his hands trembling and his nerves pinging like he’s both over-caffeinated and drunk. He is also getting hard, right here in public, like a freakin’ fourteen-year-old.

Yeah. Oh yeah, Jo was absolutely right. This is the rut, and it’s starting.

“What?” Dean’s eyes flash. “‘ _What’_? You’re gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”

“N-nothing just happened.”

God, he needs to lie down.

“Don’t lie to me, boy.”

Sam’s gut tugs, the word racing up his spine. Maybe what he actually needs is to bite the bullet and buy a toy to tie himself with because he is starting to leak into his pants and this is about to get excruciatingly embarrassing.

“I’m not,” he bites out.

“You know, Sam, it really gripes my ass that you act all mopey and shit but you’re actually...” Dean trails off. Finally. He must have noticed Sam isn’t altogether here.

Dean takes a careful, pointed sniff and after a few second’s heavy breathing Sam expects another broad grin and a humiliating jab or two. Instead, Dean stands up abruptly, uncharacteristically graceless in his movements and practically knocking his chair backwards.

“Holy shit.” His face has gone a splotchy, beet red. His pupils are the size of saucers. “Holy shit,” he says again, hoarsely. “Sam. Fuck. What the fuck.”

If the floor would just open up and swallow Sam now, that would be perfect. “I’m. Uh.”

He didn’t think it was that bad. Dean’s scent isn’t helping him think any clearer, and if it was possible for it to get stronger with each passing second Sam would say it’s started leaking out of Dean’s every pore—but it must be the rut, enhancing everything like it did with Jo.

“Wh... what...” Dean rubs a hand over his face. It doesn’t seem to help. “What the...”

Sam, who is feeling hot both over and under the collar himself, grabs his things and bundles it all in front of his lap before standing up. “I need the room for today,” he hears himself mutter. “Will you go out or something?”

“I... huh?”

Dean takes a step toward him without blinking, inhaling air like some sort of oxygen-deprived maniac.

Sam takes a matching step backwards, fighting his every want in favor of his sanity.

“Dean. The room? Can I... can I have it?”

“The—“

“Boys. Everythin’ okay?”

They both turn to look at Ellen, whom Jo must have sent over. She’s pulled her hair in a practical ponytail and it makes her jaw look more severe than ever.

“How are you feelin’, Sam? You got arrangements?”

“I... yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine, Ellen.” This can’t get any worse. His mother-figure is asking him about the rut, nothing in this world could possibly be worse than this.

“Arrangements?” Dean echoes.

“Honey, he even smells nice to _me_.” There are no suggestive overtones to the statement but her meaning is clear; betas have a less developed sense of smell than omegas, so he must be reeking of availability if even _she_ can tell his condition. “If he stays here any longer it’s gonna drive business through the roof, but it’s not gonna do him no good.”

Dean claps his hands together like he only just got it. “The rut!” he says, triumphant. It’s almost the same tone Jo used; hugely relieved.

“Yes, genius.” Ellen rolls her eyes. “The rut. Sam, you good?”

“I’m good,” Sam confirms, although he is fighting the urge to press his laptop into his crotch a little harder so his dick can get some relief. “I’m... Dean’s gonna give me the room.” He slants his brother a quick glance. “Right?”

“Right,” Dean says immediately, with a firm nod of his head. “Yup. You can have the room for—s’all yours.”

Ellen seems about to comment on something but in the end she lets it go. “Very well. You call if you need anything, all right?”

“Yeah. Will do, Ellen,” Sam says. He starts to walk out and hopes that just for _once_ , the universe will cut him some _\--_

“I’ll drive him,” Dean declares. “He could hurt himself, state he’s in.”

“...Good. You make sure he takes care of himself, Dean.”

“I will. I will, I promise.”

*

The car is a nightmare. Even with his window down, Sam can smell Dean too close. He tried to convince his brother to let him drive himself--hell, he even offered to walk, but Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“How you holdin’ up?” Dean grunts.

It’s a five minute drive, but it feels like they’ve been trapped in the Impala for hours.

“Fine,” Sam mutters. He’s not going to tell Dean the truth--he might be done telling his brother the truth from now until the end of time, actually.

“C’mon, Sam. Does it hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Sam says again.

“Dude. I have heats twice a year, okay? I get what you’re going through. It’s like being horny times a million, with the added bonus of having everything feel four times better or worse than it usually does. And no offense but at least your body doesn’t start leaking like a--”

“Stop,” Sam snaps. He’s starting to feel that tightness at the base of his cock that signals danger.

“What?”

Dean shoots him a considering look before turning back to the road.

“...You fillin’ up?”

“N-no.”

A snort. “I can smell you, remember?” Dean changes up his grip on the steering wheel, and Sam looks away before his imagination gets the better of him. “Told you it was fine that you want me, Sammy--just be straight with me about it.” After a pause, he adds: “You can tell me if you want to jump me right now.”

“Please stop talking.”

“What? Was it me talking about getting wet during my heats? ‘Cause that’s just the tip of the molten iceberg, man; I also run a legit fever so if you tied me I’d feel hotter than—“

“Shut up!”

The timing of his outburst coincides perfectly with the moment Dean stops the car, which is fortunate because Sam might have leapt from a moving Impala otherwise.

He slams the door without meaning to, but he can’t control the amount of force going into his gestures, not when he’s this angry and this close to losing it in the Starlit parking lot. He’s still himself but there’s a part of him that’s devolving into something baser, somehow less mindful and oh, so desperate to be alone.

“Sam!”

He locks the motel room door behind him and tosses his bag and his jacket on the floor. Without more than a pause for breath, he finds himself falling into Dean’s unmade bed and toeing his shoes off.

He buries his face in the sheets and opens his mouth to suck on the fabric, inhaling Dean’s scent through his nose. His dick throbs, hot and hard in the confines of his jeans. His knot finally starts to swell for real and he lets out a muffled groan, hips punching forward instinctively, head swimming with the smell of Dean’s traces on the bed.

He fists his hands in the blankets and hears a ripping sound that’s too meaningless to garner more than his passing attention. Dean was lying here an hour ago. He gives himself over to the instinct to hump the mattress, gulping in deep breaths of Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean—

“Sam!”

A slam on the bedroom door that is either Dean’s fist or his boot causes Sam to freeze. His brother’s voice is slightly muted but still very much audible.

“Sam, lemme in!”

What? _Why the hell does he want to come inside?_

“I forgot my charger, I just need to come in for one second.” And then, in a mutter that carries less than his boisterous yelling but is still audible. “And I don’t want you to stay mad at me for two days, c’mon.”

Sam thinks about it. Over the roar of his pulse and the ringing in his ears the rational, analytic mind he relies on is still very much there. But what he’s thinking is that he doesn’t want Dean to see him like this. And he definitely doesn’t want Dean to smell him on his own sheets, which Dean will undoubtedly be able to do. They are already so close to breaking; surely this punch of reality to the face (or the nose) will be what makes Dean reject him for good. He’ll know it took Sam exactly two seconds to roll around in his bed, and he won’t be able to handle—

“Sam, you either open this door or I break it down. I mean it.”

“Go away,” he grunts, but it comes out weak.

“No way. C’mon, Sammy.”

Sam’s knot throbs again, tight and painful and begging for an omega. The rut makes it easy to swell up but very hard to come without a partner, and Dean is just making everything _worse_.

“Sam?”

Dean’s voice sounds deeper, almost grittier.

“Sammy? You gettin’ off in there already?”

Sam whimpers, he can’t help it. He tries to use the bunched up bedsheets to stifle the sounds that want to come out of his mouth, but the lingering taste of Dean impregnated in the material doesn’t make things easier.

“Just--just let me in. Come on, Sam, I know at least one part of you wants me in there.”

He still doesn’t answer.

“Don’t you want me?”

“Yes,” he whispers, nodding into the sheets. Dean won’t have heard. Then he raises his voice. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Afraid you’ll do somethin’ you might regret?”

He knows he’d never assault Dean; he just doesn’t want to go through more pain. Why can’t Dean understand that?

Before Sam can yell a denial, Dean goes on. “It’s okay Sammy, I wouldn’t--I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t hold it against you, if you wanted... I know it hurts. I don’t... don’t want you hurtin’.”

That gets Sam up off the bed.

He wrenches the door open and stares at his brother like he’s never seen him before.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” he breathes, aghast.

Dean looks instantly defensive, but he shoulders his way into the room before Sam can stop him.

“It’s not rocket science, Sam.” His hand is braced provocatively on the side of his neck. “You’re hard up. I’m... I can help with that. We might as well--you might as well get off once. It makes a big difference, trust me.”

“You...” he is at a loss. ‘No’ isn’t a big enough word to refuse what Dean is offering--this completely fucked up martyr shit is so profoundly disturbing it’s almost enough to make Sam forget the pain he’s in.

Dean’s gaze has landed on the bed.

“Fuck,” he whispers, softly.

Shame burns in Sam’s gut like indigestion. He hangs his head in anticipation of Dean’s disgust, and his sweaty bangs fall over his eyes and sting. At least Dean has quickly realized how insane his proposal is, now that he’s been confronted with the reality of--

“Sam... you kinda just made my point for me.”

He hears Dean walking towards him. His scent is thicker than it’s ever been, sweet and spicy and gritty, so appealing Sam’s dick drools for it, knot tightening even farther, getting bigger. The front of his jeans is obscenely swollen; Dean can’t have missed that.

“Dean--”

“It’s okay,” Dean says. “It’s... really. I’ll let you.”

Let him what. Let him _what_.

“Dean.” Sam’s back hits the door as he tries to think past the fog of desire and the building pressure in the base of his spine. “Don’t do this to me. Please, don’t...” he reaches out a hand as though to ward Dean off. Like Dean is a demon he can exorcise.

“It’s okay.”

Sam chances a glance up at Dean’s face. His eyes are slightly unfocused, something internal clearly drawing his attention, but he keeps talking.

“I’ll... I’ll let you do it. Let you touch me. Whatever you need, Sam. I’m what you need, right?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Sam...”

“Stop.”

Dean stops, but he’s standing right in front of Sam by then. His scent is wafting around Sam in plumes, practically screaming at Sam to taste it, to taste where it’s coming from.

The leather jacket falls to the floor at Dean’s feet after an offhand shrugging movement.

The collar of the red plaid shirt he’s wearing is gaping on one side again. He should be arrested for indecency, baring his neck like that.

“What are you doing.”

Dean is looking down at Sam’s crotch, at the obscene jut of his cock pushing against the zipper.

“Fuck,” he breathes again, and his scent intensifies even more. “Jesus Sam, you must be about to burst--I’m tellin’ you I don’t mind helping you out here, why are you still saying ‘no’ to this?”

Sam wants to touch him. Of course Sam wants to touch him, he’d be ecstatic just to hump Dean’s boot and suck on his fingers and _come_ , but that doesn’t mean he should. Why is Dean putting the burden of restraint on _him_?

“Because you don’t want me,” Sam reminds him.

Dean draws his bottom lip into his mouth, breathing hard out of his nose.

“Jus’... jus’ once,” he says, gravel in his voice. “It’s no big deal, honest. It’ll make you feel good, right? That’s why you were in my bed. You needed to scent me.” He looks up at Sam’s face and those stereotypes about omegas having bigger eyes aren’t true for everyone, but Dean’s eyes are huge and his eyelashes are just _ridiculous_. “You could be scenting the real thing instead. Why not do it? You don’t get to decide for me, Sammy, just for yourself.”

Sam is trembling. Is it the rut, that’s telling him Dean is starting to make sense? Or is it just the fact that he is pathetically in love with him?

“I bet it’ll only take ten seconds, anyway,” Dean ads. He’s breathing in short gusts, and his eyes drop back down to Sam’s groin. “I bet you’ll come as soon as you get your hands on me.”

A whimper catches in Sam’s throat.

“You don’t want me,” he repeats, because saying ‘yes’ is starting to seem like an actual option. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“You’re that stubborn? I’m offering to help of my own free will.” If it weren’t for how Dean’s cheeks are flushed pink, he’d look downright longsuffering. “You want me the most, right? Otherwise you’d have called up that little twink from last night. But you want _me_ the most. And I’m saying I’ll let you. It’s just... just me n’you.” There’s a long, loaded pause. “C’mon, Sammy.”

“What are you.” Sam swallows again. “What would you...”

“Whatever,” Dean breathes, immediate. “You can... what-the-fuck-ever. Whatever you need, you can do to me.”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t say shit like that to me, Dean, that’s fucking dangerous shit to say to an Alpha during--”

Dean’s breathing gets even more uneven. “I do, though. I... Whatever the fuck you--”

Sam wrenches away from the door and staggers over to Dean’s bed. It had felt so overwhelming at first, but after being surrounded by the smell coming from Dean himself this feels like a pathetically diluted aftertaste.

He buries his face in the mattress again and tries to think. He can’t be thinking of saying yes, it’s going to destroy him; a single memory of what Dean’s skin tastes like will total his heart, it will haunt him forever.

 _But isn’t that better than_ never _knowing?_

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice sounds quiet behind him. Then there’s a dip and a shift of weight that signal Dean sitting at the foot of the bed. Two quiet thumps that must be Dean’s shoes follow the motion. “Sam, I already know you want to knot me. It’s okay.”

That’s not the worst thing Sam wants to do to his brother.

Dean doesn’t know Sam wants to bite him. Make him his mate.

“You wanna smell me? Just... just start with that? Will that...” Sam grunts into the sheets, and his hips press into the mattress again. His boxers feel like a mess, but it’s more painful than pleasurable at this point. He needs to come. He needs to come so fucking bad and Dean is offering this and he’s only human--

Suddenly Dean’s hand is gripping his bicep and pushing him, making him turn over. Sam goes even though he misses the pressure against his cock, but he does it for his intended.

Lying on his back makes the tent in his pants stand out and shifting his hips up into the air makes the heavy sway of his dick even more obvious but he can’t help either of those things. He can’t stop the grinding motion now that he’s started, and Dean is there, right there on his knees sitting next to him, and--

“It won’t take much, right?” Dean husks. He’s sitting so close his leg is touching Sam’s hip. “You smell like you’re almost there, you just need... I could...”

“Dean,” Sam whimpers.

Dean’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Please let me,” he whispers. “God, please just--just let me, please--”

Sam nods, deciding that he has made it this far in life being in love with Dean, this is--sex isn’t going to be the thing that kills him.

He’s... pretty sure.

“What do you need?” Dean asks.

“Hurts.”

“I know it does. I know it does, buddy, but I’mma make you feel so good, you’ll see, just... just tell me what you want.”

Sam wants to bury his face in Dean’s ass and lick him clean, but he can’t _say_ that.

He can’t make Dean his mate and bite him to fulfill the one-sided bond, either.

Dean tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck again. Sam realises he’d been tipping his face up, nose in the air to try and inhale as much of Dean’s scent as possible.

And then Dean says, in the same tone he uses to ask Sam if he wants to order fries with his salad:

“You wanna bite me, Sam?”

Sam’s body moves before Sam’s mind has time to process the thought.

He explodes into motion; grabbing Dean by the shoulders and tossing him on his back. Dean lets out a surprised yelp but Sam climbs on top of him and straddles his hips before he can try to get up.

There’s a moment’s breathless, intense silence while they stare at each other.

Sam was going to growl: “ _Stop testing me,_ ” right in Dean’s face, but he loses his voice in the freckles dusted over Dean’s nose.

“Are you...?” Dean pants, wild-eyed. He reaches a hand up towards Sam’s face. “Are you really gonna...?”

Sam grabs Dean’s wrist and pins it next to his head, glaring at him through the bangs falling over his eyes. _Stop taunting me_ , he wants to snarl. _Stop pushing my limits. Stop saying crazy shit like that._ Dean starts to lift the other arm and Sam pins that one too, grappling briefly for control before winning.

“Ah--Sam...?”

When he doesn’t answer Dean starts to squirm under him, breathing so hard and fast he’s wheezing. Then Dean’s legs start kicking up a storm behind Sam but none of it helps to effectively dislodge Sam’s bulk even a little, or at all.

“Sam,” Dean gasps. “Sammy, are you-- _ah_ , are you gonna...?”

He shoves his hips up and that’s when Sam feels it; Dean’s dick is a hard rod against his own.

Dean thrashes again, trying to spread his legs. He twists his wrists in Sam’s grip and not getting free just makes him struggle harder, but he doesn’t actually seem to be trying to get free the way he would if they were sparring; the way a hunter would try to get free.

“Sam, _fuck--_ ”

When Dean starts to hyperventilate Sam realizes he took it too far and he should let go, but in the instant between the thought and the execution a sudden gush of scent suffuses the air.

Dean’s eyes roll to the back of his head and his body arches up, his spine shuddering convulsively.

Sam stares, watching the flutter of Dean’s honey-colored eyelashes and way his mouth purses in a red ‘o’.

“Dean...?”

No way. The rut can’t _create_ attraction. There’s no way Dean just came.

Dean’s jaw hangs open and he gapes up at Sam like he is equally as shocked.

Sam goes a little crazy.

Something huge and powerful and primal roars in his chest, and he lunges forward and gets his face in Dean’s neck, taking a deep, dizzying pull and feeling his head spin. The smell is so concentrated there, so powerful, that his hips start to move instinctively. He grinds into Dean’s lower belly even as he opens his mouth to lick him.

Dean whimpers, trembling, tilting his head sideways to give him more room.

Sam’s tongue laps up the taste of Dean’s sweat as he noses up behind his ear, reeling from the fact that Dean came. He doesn’t know what it means and he doesn’t want to know, not right now; he just wants some relief and he knows how he’s going to get it. He’s _not_ going to bite his brother, but he’s going to come with Dean under him, knowing he’s more than got permission.

He sucks lightly on Dean’s skin and reasserts his grip on Dean’s wrists, hips shoving harder. He’s about to explode. He’s so turned on he can’t breathe, and Dean just--Dean just _came--_

“Don’t you...?” Dean gasps, still shivering. His voice is right by Sam’s ear. “Don’t you wanna...?”

_Fuck you? Bite you? Knot you?_

_Kiss you?_

Sam wants it all, but he’s not going to get it so for now he’ll settle for release. He can feel it coming and it’s going to break him in half, but he’ll ride Dean through it and Dean will just have to lie there and take it like the infuriating, insane, complicated, idiot he is--

“Aren’t y-- _oh_...” Sam sucks at his skin hard enough to press the flat of his front teeth against it, but no harder. He jostles Dean when he speeds up his thrusting, frantic. “Aren’t y-you gonna--”

Sam belatedly registers that Dean is trying to spread his thighs again even though Sam’s legs are caging them in.

“No,” he grunts, pressing his knees in tighter so Dean is forced to keep squirming under him.

Dean whimpers, back arching futilely. “But... but I’m...”

Sam can smell for himself how ready Dean is, how soft and slick he must be down there. He can feel everything, from the catch of their clothes to the peak of Dean’s nipples pressing into his chest, the rub of Dean’s stubble against the side of his face, the stench of their combined sweat and the dangerously loud rocking motion the bed is making in time with his shifting weight.

He thinks about Dean’s expression when he came; the pleasure, the shock, the ‘o’ of his plush mouth. His dick blurts out a thin stream of precome, hot and wet. His knot feels heavy and full, aching for the right kind of pressure.

“Y-you want to, right?” Dean whispers, so low Sam almost misses it.

“I won’t,” Sam growls. “I won’t.”

Dean shudders under him again, and Sam pulls away from his neck just in time to see him chew on his bottom lip. “But you want to.”

He grips Dean’s wrists tighter and Dean closes his eyes, scrunching up his forehead and throwing his head back. He smells like he’s about to come again--he _looks_ like he’s about to come again. Sam is going to go crazy with want. The desire is going to kill him.

“Of course I want to,” Sam admits in a rush, punctuating it with a stabbing motion that should leave no room for doubt. “I’m dying to.”

Dean lets out a soft cry, pressing his hips up against Sam’s in counterpoint. “Got you all hard, right? All big an’... full for me, right?”

“Yeah.” Sam drops some of his weight down to rub the full knot at the base of his dick all over Dean’s crotch. “You feel that?”

“Yes,” Dean whispers, breathless. “Yes, I...”

“I’m not going to tie you, Dean.”

“I... I...” Dean tosses his head. “Jus’... jus’ wanna make you feel good...”

“Looks to me you made yourself feel good first.”

Dean shivers, face bright red. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. “I don’t...” he whimpers. “I don’t know why that... happened--I... God, Sam, you smell so--please...”

“Please _what_?”

And he’s really asking, because he has no idea what the hell is going through Dean’s head right now.

To his shock, Dean easily frees his legs from between Sam’s and wraps them around his waist, all in a quick twisting move that locks them together. “Oh fuck, _there_ ,” he whispers in a rush.

He’s aligned their bodies so Sam’s rock-hard erection is grinding into his ass; right where it would want to go if not for the layers of fabric in between.

Sam’s body takes over on instinct; Dean gave him a command and it’s deliciously easy to give in to his rut, dick digging into Dean like it knows that behind those layers lies heaven.

“Oh f-fuck yeah,” Dean grunts. His eyes are closed and his jaw is slack, so the words come out all slurred. “Fuck, yeah. Harder.” His heels press into the backs of Sam’s thighs. “Fuck, fuck...”

Sam speeds up under the praise, some base part of him wanting to prove itself to Dean, to show him just how powerful his mate can be.

“S-Sam, Jesus...”

He goes fast and hard, tracking the way Dean’s face twitches with pleasure, sweat beading at his temples, half-formed words punching out of his mouth in sighs. Dean tries to say _‘yes’_ and _‘please’_ and _‘Sam’_ and then again ‘ _Sam, Sam, Sam_ ’ but most of the time he barely gets past the first letter.

“You’re doing this for me?” Sam pants.

Dean nods, head bobbing crazily and looking like he’s barely listening.

“Not getting anything for yourself, huh? Not gonna come again?”

Dean groans. After a few moments, his head lolls from side to side in what might be a ‘no’.

“No?” Sam echoes. “Not... about... to come... again?”

Dean spasms, heels digging under Sam’s ass so tight he can barely draw away to thrust back in. “N-nh...” he starts. “No... oh... _oh_...”

Sam dives towards Dean’s neck again and closes his teeth around the slippery skin, careful not to break it but capturing the flesh effectively--and Dean lets out a strangled yell and his back bows as much as Sam’s body allows.

Sam gets to see and feel him come for a second time, thighs locking, hips pistoning up. By the end of it Dean is moaning softly and continuously, shivering under Sam while the wet patch at the front of his jeans blooms wider, incriminating.

“Fu-uck...” He whimpers. There’s a tear rolling down his cheek. His head drops to the side, lips parted in a satisfied sigh.

His mate. Satisfied.

Suddenly Sam feels himself go hot all over and that’s it. Before he’s so much as gotten the button popped on his pants, the heat catalyses down his back and shoots out of him.

He comes with an intensity he’s never felt before. His balls ache, tight, and he loses every bit of strength in his body and drops down on top of Dean with a thump. Distantly he hears Dean groan: “Oh God, yes, good boy, c’mon Sammy...”

His hips start to jack-hammer frantically but the rest of him is in pleasure overload; he’s panting and whining into Dean’s shoulder and he feels disgusting, depraved and animalistic and wholly at the mercy of his baser instincts, gushing come.

“Yeah, Sam, come on, give it to me, give me all you got, come on...”

Sam groans and can’t stop it, wouldn’t want to; Dean is moving with him at a gallop and it feels so good he might die--

“Make me take it, come on,” Dean gasps. His hands grip Sam’s ass greedily, encouraging his movements. “I’ll take it, I got it, I got you--”

Sam can’t feel anything but the heat; he’s burning up all over and the come feels like it will never stop, just build and build and flow out of him forever.

“That good? Hm? You feel good?” Sam keens in response, completely overwhelmed and unable to speak. He feels his eyelids droop shut in ecstatic bliss and can’t stop it. “That’s my boy, that’s my Sam, you’re mine...”

Sam blindly turns his head to lick at Dean’s neck again, tongue lapping up the delicious sweat dripping down there. Dean grunts and one of his hands flies up to grip the hair at the back of Sam’s head, mashing Sam’s face in tight. “Fuck, yes...”

When Sam purses his lips and _sucks_ Dean’s thighs squeeze his sides like a vice, heels painfully keeping Sam pressed up against him. Sam can’t see the wet patch in the seat of Dean’s jeans, but he can hear the squelch it makes when he thrusts into it.

“That’s it...” Dean whispers. Sam suckles on his earlobe, slurping wetly. He has literally never experienced pleasure and euphoria at this level, not in his entire life. He sneaks a hand between them and inside the front of his jeans, wrapping it around his knot and squeezing tight. Fuck. “Yeah Sammy that’s it, y-yeah... my boy... my...”

The scent of Dean’s blood pulsing so close has him swallowing back a flood of spit, even as he suctions hard enough to draw a bruise to the surface.

“Mh... m-my... oh God...” The hand in his hair tightens to a painful degree as Dean’s back arches, socked toes curling. Sam finally draws his head back when he starts to taste copper despite the fact that he hasn’t broken the skin.

“Dean...” He may never catch his breath again. The top of his head is about to fly off. He’s still coming and Dean is so wet and _this can’t be happening_.

“Here, here, shh--” Dean mutters nonsensically, using that same grip on his hair to tug him towards his neck again.

Sam can’t help but follow (just a bit more, then he’ll stop). He licks at Dean’s temple where some new sweat had started to gather and then slides down to the hinge of Dean’s jaw.

“Mh...” Dean moans, and shoves Sam’s face in even harder, so hard this time that Sam has to be careful to cover his teeth with his lips for fear of actually tearing something at the jugular. He takes out the hand in his pants and slides it lower to touch Dean, to feel the humidity down there for himself. He presses two fingers into the wettest area at the seat of Dean’s jeans and Dean whimpers weakly, knees pressing into Sam’s sides again as he squirms.

“You’re soaked through,” he slurs, right in Dean’s ear. “Jus’... soaking... you’re...”

Sam presses harder and then gets a thumb in there too, trying to wring some moisture onto his fingers. His dick throbs with a satisfaction that comes all the way from the soles of his feet; his mate ready for him, body telegraphing want, lustful and perfect.

He has to close his eyes when another jet of come spurts out of him, making him go weak all over again.

Suddenly he feels a hand grip his bicep and his left thigh, and then gravity whirls around him and he’s suddenly panting, on his back.

Dean flipped their positions.

He shoves his ass onto Sam’s crotch with his whole weight, hips rolling and riding Sam faster than Sam was moving.

“Oh, nnh--”

Sam’s hands go to Dean’s hips and then slide up his torso, taking Dean’s white undershirt with them until Dean impatiently lets him tug the fabric over his head.

Why are they still both wearing pants?

Even as Dean continues to move like a goddamn fucking God on top of him, Sam grabs a hold of the front of his jeans and tugs until he can undo the button, then the zipper, then he gets Dean’s achingly hard cock out from his underwear just in time for Dean’s head to drop back and his balls to clench and spurt another good come all over Sam’s belly.

Dean shivers and twitches through it, whimpering.

When he’s done his dick only barely softens, and he blinks blearily down at Sam.

“You...” he scoots backwards to sit on Sam’s thighs and reaches out a hand towards Sam’s fly, but hovers before touching. “Can I...” he breathes. The way he looks and the gesture itself are almost ridiculously reverent, and maybe this would be funny in an alternate version of reality.

Sam nods.

Dean immediately undoes Sam’s fly and pulls his underwear down. The groan he lets out when he exposes Sam’s leaking cock and full knot to the room is pained, like sympathy.

“Jesus. Oh, Jesus, Sammy--”

Sam wants to buck into the touch violently, but he locks his muscles and bites his lower lip. He can smell Dean in the air like a cloud.

For his part, Dean is just kind of... staring. ‘Awed’ would be the word Sam would have chosen to describe the expression if this were anyone else in any other circumstance.

“Please,” Sam begs, not knowing what he’s asking for.

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean gets his whole hand slick just by jacking the head of Sam’s cock, which is still leaking come.

“Dean...” Sam whimpers.

“You smell so...” He visibly licks his lips. “God, you smell... I...”

Without taking his eyes or his right hand off of Sam’s dick, Dean pulls his own jeans all the way down and off with his left. His scent intensifies in the air to the point where it’s all Sam can do not to lunge face-first between his legs. Light glints off the slickness on the inside of his thighs, and Sam whimpers with defeat.

He will never get over this.

Once he’s completely naked, Dean grabs Sam’s hand and brings it forward. “If you won’t...” He’s still staring hungrily at Sam’s cock. “I gotta--at least... I need...” he pants.

Sam doesn’t get what he means at first, but then--oh, then Dean climbs on his hand and shoves two of Sam’s fingers into himself with a sigh of relief.

“Dean...”

Dean’s head falls forward and he doesn’t respond, dropping most of his weight down on Sam’s hand to get it in as deep as possible, thighs trembling, jaw slack with pleasure. He feels like sinking into tight, clenching butter.

The hand he isn’t using to grip Sam’s wrist stays on Sam’s dick, squeezing it like a vice, milking it for more come like he owns it. Like he’s imagining...

“Dean--”

“I... I’m...” He starts bouncing himself on the fingers, grunting. “Just--fuck, _fuck_ , ah, just gonna--” As he curls forward, he takes unnecessarily deep breaths through his nose--almost the same way Sam is shamelessly tipping his head up to scent him.

“Again...?” Sam croaks.

The evidence is obvious--Dean’s dick looks big and thick with blood already, the head leaking honeyed precome. When it smacks up against Dean’s own lower belly, it makes a wet slapping sound. “I just--oh shit, oh fuck--”

“You gonna come _again_...?”

Dean lets out a strangled groan, fingers clenching around Sam’s shaft, ass clenching around Sam’s fingers, making Sam’s hips punch up.

“Christ Dean, you’re fucking _loving_ this.”

Dean frantically gets another of Sam’s fingers inside and bites his lower lip, making the kind of noises Sam couldn’t have ever dreamt up much as he thought about this moment.

“Y-you...” Dean pants, suddenly looking into his eyes. “You’re so... oh... oh, _oh, yeah_ , fuck, fuck--”

He spurts all over Sam’s belly, hot and thick like he hasn’t come three freaking times in the past few minutes.

Four times. Four times, and his hand is massaging Sam’s dick like he’s trying to wring all the come out of it, thumb circling the edge at the base where his knot flares.

“Fuck...” Dean whispers. “You’re still...” He shivers as Sam draws his fingers out of him a slick, loud movement. “Why don’t you just do it? Just... just --”

“No.” Sam pushes him away and shuffles out from under him, kicking his own jeans and drenched underwear off in the process.

He knees back onto the mattress and almost stops when he realizes Dean turned over onto his stomach.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean grunts.

Sam climbs on top of him.

“Yes. Yes, c’mon...” Dean sighs, tipping his ass up in the most omega-presenting move Sam has ever seen him display. “Do it--”

“No, I just--” Sam huffs. His dick is still pulsing, still drooling come. “I just need--”

Dean arches like he didn’t hear the denial, spreading his legs.

Sam slots his swollen cock between Dean’s slick cheeks and groans like a dying man. The smell is everywhere, and he has to remind himself not to bite, not to bite, not to sink his teeth in and _bite_.

Dean reaches an arm back to grip Sam’s head by the hair again, shoving his face against the back of Dean’s neck so hard that his teeth press dangerously into the flesh.

Sam ends up humping him like an animal, grunting against Dean’s nape and smelling him shamelessly. He’s not going to knot Dean and he’s not going to bite him either but he can’t stop thinking about the fact that Dean is under the impression that he _might_ \--and all he’s doing is smothering his cries into the pillow and taking it. God, he’s--

He’s not just taking it; he’s _arching_ into it.

Sam’s dick shoots another thin stream of come that coats the sweaty space between his abs and Dean’s lower back, and Dean rolls his head onto his forehead, back rippling as he shivers.

“Gonna come again?” Sam asks, dirty and accusatory in Dean’s ear.

Dean keens, shoulders hunching like he’s embarrassed. His legs keep twitching and shifting restlessly and his perfect, plump ass clenches rhythmically around Sam’s dick, though not in the way the rut wishes it would.

“Gonne come a fifth fucking time?”

“No... no n- _oh_ , nnh--”

“Sounds like you’re gonna come...”

“Oh God, oh fuck--”

“Yeah, come on Dean, do me a fucking favor and cream yourself again--”

Dean lets out a strangled yell. “Fuck, _fuck_ me--”

Sam groans.

“Oh God please, please fuck me, fuck, please... just put it in, I know you want to... fuck, why won’t you just--just give in Sammy, just--”

_Just give in, Sammy._

The words are jarring and suddenly Sam’s brain screeches to a halt.

“No,” he gasps. “No, I--no.”

Dean goes still as a statue, except for his heavy breathing.

“...What?”

“M’not...” And it hits him; what they are doing, what they slipped and slid into in a heated rush. _Just give in_? He’s in control of his actions; he’s _not_ going to let this desire take him over.

He is the one in control.

He scrambles off of his brother and grabs a fistful of blankets to pull over his crotch.

“We have to stop,” he breathes. “We have to... we shouldn’t have done this.”

Dean gapes at him, craning his neck to look at Sam over his shoulder. The muscles of his broad back shift like tectonic plates, his ribcage expands and contracts rapidly as he is still catching his breath. “What?” He blinks rapidly, starts to shake his head. “Why not? You wanted this--”

“No. No, this is... this is messed up. This is not what I wanted.”

Dean looks like Sam just slapped him.

“But... but you want me,” he says again, dumbly.

“I don’t want some meaningless...” he gestures between them, encompassing the scene, the disarray, the smells. He’s stopped coming--despite the lingering tightness down there, he’s abruptly barely even hard. “You should go.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Sam--”

“Dean. I’ll be okay, but I never wanted a pity fuck.”

Sam watches his brother flinch at the swear. He doesn’t normally, not as much as Dean, but he needs Dean to get out and he needs to think.

Dean still looks like Sam crumpled his feelings like so much newspaper. “Sammy...”

“I’ll be fine.”

Dean turns away and drops his head between his broad shoulders, but doesn’t make any other move to leave. He just lies there, on his stomach with his back arched like a dream, weight resting on his forearms.

“Dean. Please go,” Sam whispers finally. His throat is scratchy with threatening tears, and it makes his voice come out all weak and high.

Dean sits up and scoots over to the opposite edge of the mattress, but instead of actually getting up and leaving he draws in a big, gulping breath and scratches the back of his head. Turning his head to half-look at the space between them, he whispers; “Don’t... don’t knot anyone else.”

Sam blinks.

He can’t have heard that right.

“...What?”

“I can’t... I--please, promise me.”

“What.”

“Please.” Dean is staring down at Sam’s bare knee poking out from under the sheet with an intensity that’s paralyzing. “Don’t.”

“Dean.”

“I can’t--I can’t, Sammy. Don’t do it okay? Promise me you won’t do it, not anyone else, please--”

“Dean, what the--”

“Because I can’t fucking--” Dean’s eyes snap up to meet his, and he looks terrified. “I just can’t fucking deal with the idea of you doing that to--I just don’t want you to, okay? So don’t... don’t go out looking for Pedro or anyone. It’s me or no one else.”

Sam is so furious so fast that he feels dizzy. “Fuck you, Dean.”

Finally, Dean looks surprised. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Sam--”

“I can’t _believe_ how fucking horrible you’ve been to me. This whole time, you’ve been... I know it was hard for you; this thing isn’t something I’m proud of, but it’s a part of me, and I’ve been afraid you’d hate me for most of my life. And instead...” he draws in a shaking breath. “Instead, you’ve been stringing me along and laughing at me and I’m... so fucking in love with you it’s not even funny and it hurts so much _every time_ you bring it up, and you’ve been rubbing it in my face every fucking day since you found out and it’s not fair, it’s not--”

“Fair?” Dean echoes. “It’s not ‘fair’?” He leans forward, furious. “Fair is me being able to think about any-fucking-thing but you, Sam!”

Sam stops breathing.

“Ever since you--Jesus Christ, since I smelled it I can’t stop thinking about it. And you’ve been acting like a goddamn saint this whole time and I can’t--I can’t stop thinking about it and picturing it and dreaming about it and... and...” Something huge seems to be dawning on him. “And...”

The suspense is tearing Sam apart.

“And?”

Dean glances down at himself, at the bedsheets, and then back up at Sam.

“And... wanting it.”

Sam blinks.

“I’ve been trying to get you to...” Dean huffs. “I don’t even know. I don’t even know what I was thinking, except that I wanted to... rile you up, I guess, but--fuck. When you let that other kid touch you I was about ready to rip his goddamn lungs out, Sam, I really was.”

“You expect me to be alone forever?” Sam murmurs faintly.

“No. No, I...” Dean’s face crumples and he motions to Sam’s whole frame. “You kidding me? Look at you, Sammy. You deserve... you should have whatever you want. Anything. And I...”

“And this is what you think I want,” Sam finishes for him. “You, letting me fuck you.”

“Letting you?” Dean’s cheeks are rosy with shame. “Were we in the same goddamn room just now? You think this was me ‘letting you’ anything?” Before Sam can answer, he barrels on. “Sammy, it wasn’t outta the goodness of my heart that I took it so well, back when you told me... when I smelled it the first time. I think even then, I...”

He pauses to draw in another deep breath.

And then he mutters: “You smell so fucking good, Sam, you have no goddamn idea. Makin’ me crazy.”

Sam hears the words, he’s just having trouble believing them.

“You’ve been makin’ me all sorts of crazy lately, Sam.”

Sam’s gaze drops down to his own lap again.

“I’m not--I’m really not nice men, Sammy.” Only Dean would reference Han Solo at a time like this. There’s a rustle of bedsheets and the sound of Dean sliding closer. “Your bite...” The word shoots a current up Sam’s spine. “I... I wanted it so bad, Sammy. Even when I didn’t know I wanted it, I think I wanted... wanted you to get mad at me or something an’ just... just grab me and...”

“You’re so fucked up.”

“I know. I know that.” Dean’s hand creeps into Sam’s field of vision. “But that doesn’t make it not true. I wanted you to fuckin’... maul me, I think.” There’s a loaded pause. “Still want you to do that.”

Sam shudders.

“That night, in the shower... I practically got my whole fucking hand inside just thinking about making you lose it.”

“Fuck, Dean--”

“I was throwing myself at you even when I didn’t know I was doing it.”

“Dean.” Sam was wrong about being able to do this and keep going in life, he gets that now. Even if Dean wants the sex too, that wouldn’t be enough. “It’s not just a bite.”

“I know that.” Dean scoots forward in the bed, shoulders hunched, looking up at Sam from under his lashes, shamelessly abusing his looks. “I know.”

“But you...”

“I know what the bite means, Sam.” He lifts his hand up to his own neck, pointing, marking the place. Sam sucked an impressive bruise there but it’s clearly not enough. “I’ve been thinking about it for so long... about how you’d do it right here. This spot’s been... I‘ve been aching for months.”

Sam finds himself tipping forward helplessly (always helpless, always when it comes to Dean).

“I’m going crazy with it. M’not saying I haven’t been an asshole, because I have a fuckton to make up for, but...” He reaches out to cup Sam’s face in his palm and then, slowly, inexorably, slides his fingers further back to sink into Sam’s sweaty hair. “I mean this more than anythin’, Sammy.” He half-smiles, hopeless. “S’you’n me, huh? Nothin’ I want more than that.”

Sam stares into his green, green eyes.

“What will it take to convince you? I’ll do anything.”

Sam doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what to do, or what to ask Dean to do, to make the feeling of profound and utter disbelief go away.

He’s inches from Dean’s skin again, and his jaw’s been aching for ever, too. He wants to bury his face there again so he can breathe safely away from the intensity of Dean’s gaze.

“Sam...”

A tug on his hair prevents him from advancing any further. Confused, Sam blinks at Dean and tries to move towards his neck again but Dean’s grip won’t let him.

Sam’s heart double-takes at the possibility that this has been some sort of trick or betrayal, and it would be too painful, too gut-wrenching, he will break apart if--

Dean looks straight into him and leans in to give Sam the tenderest, kindest kiss.

He’s only stunned into stillness for a moment; soon Sam makes a soft, hurt sound and kisses back. It’s so slow and it’s everything he’s ever wanted, and he doesn’t know how to understand or contain the feeling. There is no pain, just unadulterated, unfettered joy blooming from the center of his chest to extend not just to his limbs but almost outside his body.

_This is what he hadn’t known to ask for._

Still slow, still careful, Dean tips back and takes Sam with him, still kissing, still wrist-deep in Sam’s hair.

It all happens... so much gentler than Sam had ever imagined.

Dean doesn’t push him anywhere like he was doing before; nor does he bare his throat again to goad or tempt Sam into giving in. It isn’t about that.

“Y-you sure...?” Sam asks him, over and over, to the point where he's doing it redundantly.

“Yeah, Sam.” Dean says every time. “Yes,” and “Fuck, yes,” and “ _Duh_ ,” because he’s still Dean.

They fit together like it was planned, like someone made them on purpose.

“Sam...” Dean whispers, eyes glassy and grin so huge Sam has a headache from how happy he is. “M’yours, Sam.”

“God...” Sam grips him by the hips and thrusts in deeper, possibly shedding a tear or two from how fucking good it feels. Dean won’t call him out on it; he’s cried too.

“Tell me how much you’ve wanted this,” Dean murmurs.

“Son of a bitch, I lay awake at night wanting it,” Sam grits out, thighs shaking with pleasure. “Fucked my hand in the bathroom when it got too much. Dreamt of rolling around your sheets. Cried myself to sleep.”

Dean kisses his forehead for that, and his cheeks and his mouth again.

“I plotted three murders,” he hisses in Sam’s ear. “Still not sure how close I came to carrying them out.” Sam laughs darkly at that because he’s slightly afraid and he’s not sure how else to react. “I stole your Bon Jovi shirt to scent it. Would take hits of it like a fucking junkie.”

“You like... my scent...?”

“I almost creamed myself back at the Roadhouse, when it hit me--”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam pants, shoving his hips in harder.

“Soaked through my underwear in four fucking seconds, I swear--” Dean ads, breathless. “It kills me, how you have no idea... what you do to people...”

“Only cared about you.” He kisses Dean’s jaw, mumbling the confession against the skin as though there’s any way to salvage his dignity today. “I only ever cared about you, Dean.”

Dean throws his head back, visibly overwhelmed.

Sam drags the flat of his tongue from his clavicle up his jugular, and the anticipatory sound Dean emits goes right to his belly. Dean thinks...

He drags his teeth along the slick, sweaty skin.

Dean’s body goes rigid, expectant.

“You really want this?”

“Yes,” he gasps instantly. “ _God_ yes, yes, Sam, do it--”

He’s cut off when Sam sinks his teeth into the flesh.

A surge of adrenalin tears through his system; nothing short of miraculous, dizzying satisfaction and an ancient, bone-deep sense of rightness.

Dean’s cry of pleasure is soft, surprised. He shivers and trembles and sobs under Sam while Sam’s teeth secure their purchase and mark the territory, blood welling up around the site and spilling Dean’s scent in its purest, rawest form.

“Love you,” Dean breathes, or wheezes really. “Love you, Sam, love you, love you, love you...”

Sam doesn’t draw away to reply, but he believes Dean’s words as though feeling the trembling vibration of Dean’s vocalization inside his mouth makes them more real.

“Love you, Sammy...”

He doesn’t spell out reciprocation because Dean has always had the ability to tell, and he’s known ever since that random Tuesday in this very motel.

“I love you, Sam...”

He doesn’t move at all; their hands are already entwined.

“I love you.”

He thinks; _I know_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and congratulations for getting through So Much Porn! Also Star Wars references.
> 
> Headcanon for Pedro the marine: he met a Trevante Rhodes-looking veterinarian and they rescued five dogs of hilariously varying sizes. They eventually posted short videos of said dogs being ridiculously cute on a YouTube channel with an astounding amount of followers.
> 
> As always, feedback is deeply cherished!!!


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